


Beggar's Ride

by inkling



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Novella, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-06-30
Updated: 2001-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkling/pseuds/inkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cop with super-heightened senses uses those senses to solve crimes in a fictional Pacific Northwest town, with the aid of his partner, a spunky graduate student in archeology. Ahem.  Okay, for real? Late March, 1998 and things are a bit slow in Cascade for the guys. Between dreams and late night phone calls, Blair's beauty sleep is suffering. Jim is digging through old files looking for a case to solve, and no one is surprised when his trek through Cascade P.D.'s archives turns up a bit more than dust bunnies.</p><p>Please take the "Mature" rating seriously.  Contains language and strong emotional themes. Nothing graphic, and nothing involving the main characters, but one of my beta readers recommended "Check your teletubbies at the door" for the reader caveat. Things do get intense before the story's done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Senfic list ages ago, and archived at Cascade Library ever since.
> 
> Disclaimers: Standard they-aren't-mine-they-just-come-out-to-play-now-and-then disclaimers apply. Anything not already signed, sealed and delivered to UPN and Pet Fly is mine, all mine -- not that there's much of that beyond a story idea and an original character or two.
> 
> Beta Readers: Thanks first of all to akamarykate, grammar goddess and queen of all beta readers! Buon Giorno, Principessa! You're da squirrel, girl, and one *big* reason my stories are half as good as they are. Hephaistos gets the next laurel wreath of gratitude, for her encouragement, for all her questions that kept me honest with my plot threads and all the "yeah, Blair/Jim would say/do that" stuff. Couldn't have done it without either one of you ladies! A large helping of gratitude goes to Kimberly Heggen, for her wonderful help with the few medical questions I had. Thanks for the little details that make a story real! And last but not least, to the other authors who encouraged me along the way: Maryilee, Daenea, D.L. Thanks ladies!
> 
> Proper pronunciation of the Scottish name Morag is actually "MAWR-akh." I'm sure Blair gets it right, but I'm the author and I don't always get it.
> 
> Any "Star Trek: The Original Series" references in this story are purely akamarykate's fault. She's the one who challenged me, way back in January '99, to put that infamous Star Trek line, "He's dead, Jim" in a Senfic. (I promise, those parts of the story were written by the end of January, before any of the recent stories on the list with those lines had been posted. )

_The fields of memory are like a rich archeological site with layers upon layer of artifacts from different periods, which through some geological upheaval, got mixed up._

 

\--Shlomo Breznitz

 

 

Part 1

 

_Chunks of grey plaster rained down around Blair and he hunched closer to the large rock, wrapping his arms over his head. He ignored the faint trilling sound in the background in favor of attempting to prevent more dust and debris from landing on him. A few of the larger pieces impacted with his blue uniform, and he flinched. Oh well, a few bruises obtained in the line of duty on a landing party had to be worth something with the ladies on board. Maybe that Ensign Jamie Summers in Astrogation, maybe she'd be a little more impressed with him if he had a few battle wounds to kiss away._

_The pulsing trill hadn't stopped but the pebbles falling from the sky finally did. Blair shook his head to clear the dust from his eyes and bit back a sneeze. Wouldn't do for Mr. Spock to think his newest specialist couldn't handle a little dirt. Catching the concerned glance that particular officer sent his way as the air cleared around them, Blair returned the somber gaze with his winningest smile, the one his Sentinel could never turn down. It didn't even rate a raised eyebrow from the Vulcan. _

_*Geez, and I thought Jim had this stoicism thing down pat.*_

_Stepping out from behind his meager shelter, Blair gravitated toward the center of the clearing with the rest of the landing party. The trilling noise was more annoying now, but he ignored it; turning instead to the confrontation taking place in front of him in the strange pink light of this planet's day. There the large carved monolith their blasting had excavated served as a fitting backdrop for the familiar golden figure cajoling another man, darkhaired, quicksilver in a blue shirt. _

_"Come on, Bones, there's got to be something there you can read!"_

_"Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not an anthropologist!"_

_The golden man was not to be denied. He turned to the other half of the sky in which his sun shone. _

_"Spock? Is there anything you can tell me?"_

_"Not without time and considerable effort, Captain. I have never seen these particular emblems before, and without considerable study--"_

_Eyes wide, Blair stared at the familiar symbols. The glyphs on the large stele matched those at the temple in Peru, the temple where Jim received his spirit guide. Blair swallowed, trying to bring some moisture to his suddenly dry throat, and stepped forward._

_"Sirs? I am an anthropologist. I happen to be familiar with these symbols. My Master's thesis involved quite a bit of research..." Three pairs of eyes, one blue, one hazel and one dark chocolate, swiveled around toward him, and Blair's voice suddenly faded to a whisper. _

_Gulping, Blair tried to remember what he was going to say, but that damn trilling noise in the background was making it hard to think. He knew he looked like a wide-eyed kid on his first date, tried and failed to stop his knees from shaking, impatiently shoved his curly hair behind his ears knowing he never looked less like a Starfleet professional. But dammit, he couldn't expect to be anything *but* nervous! These men before him were ICONS. They and their fellow bridge crew had probably had more impact on modern pop culture than any other group like them. For him to be here, now, with them, well, it, it was a little like Stanley meeting Livingston, Schleimann meeting Agamemnon -- heck, sort of like suddenly finding himself standing in front of Frodo and Aragorn. As Blair stopped in front of the trio, Mr. Spock lifted an eyebrow. _

_"I believe that is your communicator, Ensign Sandburg."_

_Blair realized the slight vibrations coming from his own communicator were in perfect synch with the annoying trilling noise. Of all the times....He tried to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks as he fumbled for his communicator._

_"Um, if you gentlemen will--"_

 

"SANDBURG!! Answer the damn phone!"

What the--?

Blair automatically reached for his backpack before he was truly awake, landing on the floor beside his bed with a thump and a groan before he found the pack. Wide-awake now, he dug for the cell phone that had to be buried somewhere in one of these pockets, retrieving it at the same moment his eyes finally focused enough to make sense of the numbers on his clock: 2:38 a.m. Man, no wonder Jim was pissed. The bathroom door slammed shut as Blair snapped the phone open and prepared to let whomever it was that called at this ungodly hour of the night know just exactly what he thought of the interruption. This better not be a crank call. If it was, and Jim ever found out who it was...well, lets just say the party in question would be sorry, sorry as only a cop could make them.

God, who *would* be calling him at this time of the night, unless it were an emergency? His stomach twisted now with worry, Blair pressed the button and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Blair?"

He frowned. Female, sounded young, but the voice wasn't familiar. A student perhaps? The toilet flushed and Blair winced. Jim was really *not* going to be happy with this.

"Yeah, speaking. Who is this and what's the problem?"

Silence.

Then what sounded suspiciously like a short sob, and the line went dead.

Blair looked up from his seat on the floor to the slightly darker outline of his partner in the door.

"New girlfriend?" At least Jim seemed willing to consider the humor in the situation.

"No, man, more likely an old one. She didn't say anything but hello and hung up. Probably wanted to interrupt my beauty sleep."

Jim snorted.

"Right. Why don't you turn the phone off and lets see if we can't actually get some sleep around here. I've got a long day--"

"I know, you've got a long day tomorrow. When *don't* you have a long day tomorrow?"

The dark shadow didn't move.

"Well, Darwin, if you'd answer the phone when it first started ringing instead of waiting for five minutes--"

"Yeah, man, sorry 'bout that. I was dreaming, and the phone was just part of the dream, you know, just--"

"Sandburg!"

Blair paused, then smiled up at the shadow in his doorway.

"Yeah?"

"I *said* I wanted to get some sleep tonight. Turn that thing off and keep your dreams to yourself. I don't need any more fodder from you for my nightmares."

Blair's grin grew even wider. He thumbed the phone off, then climbed back into bed.

"Sure, Jim, whatever you say." Settling into his covers once more, Blair waited until he heard Jim's feet on the stairs up to his bedroom. "Just don't yell at me tomorrow when you try to call me and the phone's off."

"Sandburg! I'm going to do more than yell at you if you don't shut up!"

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

"...see, and then the Internet came along, so suddenly what you had in the 60's and 70's with the Trekkies isn't so odd anymore because closed societies can form anywhere now, regardless of geographical location, with people from any given show or fandom and--"

"Peace, Chief! I get the picture." Jim didn't wait for the elevator doors to finish opening before he pushed his way through into the lobby. Major Crimes' doors were just a few steps away, and hopefully his release from Blair's discourse on the impact of the Internet on modern pop culture as well. The double doors flew open at Jim's touch, Sandburg almost running to keep up with him.

"But, Jim, you have to appreciate the fact that the Internet was *not* around then! The original Trekkies, they had this incredible fan network built up with just--"

Blair's voice came to an abrupt halt as he ran right into Jim's back, then stepped around him to stare at the tableau that had brought Jim to a standstill. Detectives Rafe, Brown and Taggart glumly stood around a desk covered in piles of files - lots and lots of files. Jim focused in on the desk and counted five stacks of files, all of two feet deep each. Minute motes of mold and dust suddenly clogged his nostrils. He sneezed four times in succession and Simon materialized in his office door as if summoned. The captain waved an unlit cigar in the bullpen's general direction.

"You ladies still whining about this assignment? Ellison, Sandburg, glad to see you decided to join us this morning. Since these girls don't seem to be able to make up their minds, you can be first in on the dance. Step right up and take your pick."

Blair stepped up to the desk, picking up one folder from a pile and ruffling through it.

"I thought we already did our review of unsolved cases for the year, Simon."

Simon's smile was just too big for Jim's comfort.

"My, aren't we observant. Guess that makes you the Official Police Observer here, Sandburg. Well, you're right. We did *our* review for the year." No one had to mention the fact it was thanks to the mismatched pair before him that Major Crimes' "unsolved" pile was mercifully thin. Simon's basso rumble continued. "These are all the unsolved cases from Homicide, with assaults and burglaries thrown in for fun. Since we don't have much of a caseload for the moment, and our own review was so light, the commissioner wants us to look through these files and see if there's anything we can come up with, any connections or patterns the other departments may have missed."

Jim shifted, frowned at the desk, then up at his Captain.

"Not much of a caseload? Sir, there's the D'Angelo investigation, the Rupert case, the--"

Simon held a hand up.

"None of which are urgent right now. You've got to wait on the stuff from the FBI for the Rupert case anyway." Simon surveyed his reluctant detectives, and smiled largely. "Just do the best you can, gentlemen, in your spare time."

Jim sighed, taking in his fellow detectives' resigned gazes.

"Spare time. Right." Catching Rafe's eye, Jim smiled grimly. "Might as well get on it. They aren't going to go away. Pick a stack, Chief."

"Hmmph?" Blair looked up at Jim from the folder he was studying. "Oh, yeah, okay." He dropped the folder he held back on the top of its stack and took about one third of the pile back up with it. Then he moved to the next pile, and resting his first group of folders on the desk next to it, took several inches worth of folders from the middle of that stack. Everyone stared at the grad student, but it was Jim who finally broke the silence.

"Sandburg."

Wide blue eyes gazed at him disingenuously, as Blair added the second group of folders to his first, almost losing the entire stack on the floor in the process. Jim stepped up and caught the folders just in time, handing them back for Blair to juggle into his growing pile.

"What are you doing? In case you don't remember, Simon said to *take* a stack, not play musical stacks."

Blair shook his head.

"Come on, man, think about it! We're supposed to look for patterns the other departments may have missed. If you want new patterns, you have to break the old ones, you know, mix things up a bit. Then you'll be able to see the new patterns, if they're there."

Jim raised his eyebrows, looked at Simon. Simon just grinned, stuck his unlighted cigar between his teeth, and nodded.

Brown, Rafe and Taggert exchanged a glance.

"I'd say Hairboy has a point there." Brown said admiringly.

"Yeah, but if he combs his hair right no one will notice." Rafe grinned, and all three detectives stepped up, reaching for the top portion of a stack of folders.

"No, no, don't all do that, man, that's not really mixing things up."

Jim stepped over to Simon's side and watched as Blair supervised the unmaking of the stacks of folders, remaking them into new piles by insisting each detective take folders from a different part of each pile.

"You know, Simon, there are days I wonder how we solved *anything* before he came along."

Simon clapped Jim on the shoulder.

"Yeah, well, there are days I wonder why nobody in the bullpen shot you before he came along." Ignoring the face Jim made at him, Simon dropped his hand and continued, "How'd that little Mr. Policeman talk at Sitka School go yesterday?"

Jim rolled his eyes. Two hours of safety discussions with 4- and 5-year-olds, no matter how intelligent or precocious, had *not* been his idea of fun. If taking on these old cases meant getting out of any more kiddy duty, then he was all for it.

"It went fine. Sandburg was the real star, though. Fit right in. Even had him handing out his own business cards at the end of it."

"Didn't you take enough department cards?"

"Yeah, but some of the kids wanted cards from him too. I think the kindergarten teacher put them up to it."

"Pheromone Boy strikes again?" Simon asked.

The deep, quaking rumble that followed Jim's baffled headshake was Simon's chuckle. Cigar once more clenched between his teeth, the Captain watched Blair boss the three detectives in front of them around as if they were the kindergarten students and he was the teacher.

"You know, if the kid could bottle and sell it, he'd never have to worry about another grant, would he?"

Jim snorted his agreement. *That* was for sure. Catching Simon's eye on him speculatively, Jim couldn't shake a sudden feeling of worry.

"Simon?"

Simon sighed, then took his cigar out from between his teeth.

"They want you back. Monday, the 30th, to do the same talk with the older kids."

"Simon, this was supposed to be a one shot deal! Can't you se--"

"Not when they ask for you and Tonto by name. You impressed the administrators, Jim, and the teachers, *and* had a good rapport with the kids. Not just Sandburg, *you* did. And, need I remind you, the mayor, the commissioner, and four out of five city councilmen have their children in that school, along with a good portion of the local judges and as many other elected officials in this area that can beg, borrow or steal the tuition? With budget time rolling around, and the 'no more taxes' mood of the populace, we are going to need the all the good rapport we can get, especially if you want to ever get your shadow over there on as a full-time, paid consultant." The cigar went back between the white teeth, and Simon's smile disappeared as he gave Jim his best "I"m the Captain and you're the flunky" stare.

Jim sighed. Simon was right, even if it did mean another wasted afternoon. It wasn't wasted, truly, if they helped even one child out, but dammit, if he'd wanted to work with kids he'd have gone into juvey. One glance at Simon's teeth clenched around his cigar though, and Jim knew further argument was useless. Besides, if, in the future, it did help get Sandburg on the department's payroll, maybe obtain a little financial security for the kid so he didn't have to worry about jumping through all those damn hoops for grants and the University, the sacrifice of a few hours of Jim's time would be more than worth it.

Still, Jim grimaced at Simon before nodding his consent to the plan. Simon grunted in satisfaction. While they had talked, the other four men had finished divvying up the stacks of files. Blair was gathering the last few folders from the table and setting them on top of his pile--a pile that was noticeably taller than anyone else's. Jim uncrossed his arms and took a breath, but movement beside him caught his attention first. He turned to his captain.

"There are two of you. And, the case can be made that it's *your* fault we have such a light load of unsolved cases."

Jim glared for a moment, then, with a shrug, conceded that point too. Great. Score for the day, Banks 2, Ellison 0. The captain's phone rang then, and Simon swore briefly before heading into his office.

Tuning out Simon's greeting for the commissioner, Jim followed Blair and the pile of folders he carried over to their desks. The stack landed on Jim's desk with a thump and a whoosh! of dust that had Blair sneezing. Jim shook his head.

"You get started, Chief. I'm going down to supplies to get a few more boxes of Kleenex."

Blair looked up as Jim turned to leave.

"Hey, Jim, I have class at 1:30, remember?"

"Yeah, I know. I'll be back before then."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_"In the dark night of the soul it's always three o'clock in the morning."_

_\---F. Scott Fitzgerald_

 

_   
_

Jim heard the voices as he turned the corner towards Blair's office. Damn, if Blair couldn't get rid of whoever that was they were going to be seriously late for the game. A faint odor teased him as he strode down the hall... Bubble gum, he decided, opening up his sense of smell just a bit, with a lot of petroleum jelly and other unhealthy stuff thrown in for good measure. Not nearly as appetizing up close as he was sure it was supposed to smell. Damn again. That meant his Guide's visitor was one Morag Gilbertson, Blair's fellow TA and grad student, looking for more hand-holding as she finished putting her Master's thesis together.

"Might as well plan on missing the tip off at minimum and most likely the entire first quarter of the Jags' game," Jim muttered under his breath. Sighing, he slowed as he approached the corner, turning his hearing up just a bit, hoping against hope that Blair was almost done.

"No, okay, I think you're on the right track here, but you might try this quote up here..." The sound of a pen scritching on paper followed Blair's voice. "See? It makes your point that much more effective."

"Okay," replied Blair's visitor, followed by the sound of pages being turned and Blair's chair creaking. Then Morag's voice again. "I'd better get going. Thanks for your help, Blair. I don't know what I'd do--"

"You'd do fine, that's what you'd do. Morag, you've got a great premise here, your research is meticulous, and you're a good writer. The changes Mickelson wants aren't that hard to effect. Don't sweat it, you've got nothing to worry about, not at all."

"Well, too bad you're not on the review committee."

Blair chuckled.

"Hey, man, you don't need me there to sway the votes. You can do that all on your own. Here, just let me see what he had to say on this part before you take off."

Papers rustled then, and someone--Morag hopefully--was putting on a coat. Stopping just inside the open door of Blair's office, Jim leaned against the door frame. Blair sat hunched forward, glasses on, intently perusing a paper, the surface of his desk lost beneath piles of paper and books. Gaze moving up from his partner and the mess he called his desk, Jim nodded at the girl standing behind his Guide, and -- just like every other time he'd seen Morag Gilbertson -- immediately found himself fighting the urge to laugh outright.

Approximately one inch taller than his roommate, the woman had long curls to rival Blair's. Except where his friend's were a natural brown, hers were an unnatural shade of deep purplish black. Large grey eyes coolly appraised Jim from a face made up with dead white foundation. Black eyeliner came out to overly dramatic points beside each eye, and her eyelids were topped with a color Jim had only ever been able to categorize as bruised purple -- dark bruised purple. There had to have been a two-for-one lifetime supply sale on the stuff, because Morag's lips were invariably painted the same painful color as her eyelids. She was shrugging a long black cape on over a black v-neck sweater dress with a lavender t-shirt peeking through at the neckline. Her shoes weren't visible, but Jim knew they would be the regulation black lace-up boots over black tights. Large silver spider web earrings completed the Gothic look he thought most students outgrew by the time they were 20 something.

_*Maybe it has something to do with being grad students for so long that retards their social development.*_

Crossing his arms, Jim decided to let the smile that grew at that thought go unabated.

'It's a wonder you don't get cited for maintaining a fire hazard on University property, Chief."

Blair glanced up from the papers in front of him.

"Jim! What's the grand occasion, man?"

"Well, to start with your phone's off the hook." The Sentinel nodded at the phone, barely discernable beneath a pile of papers, the receiver knocked just far enough off to one side to make it impossible to connect. "I've been trying to reach you for the last hour on your cell phone."

"You know I turned the cell phone off last ni--The Jags' game!"

Jim merely raised one eyebrow slightly at his friend's sudden consternation.

"We've got 30 minutes before tip-off."

Blair was scrambling, grabbing his pack and stuffing papers in it. Long, delicate fingers with purplish-black nails quickly rescued the page Sandburg had dropped and a black folder from the frenzy, then Elvira, as Jim had mentally dubbed Morag the first time he saw her, reached for her own backpack on the floor. Settling it over her shoulder, she tucked the page in the folder and the folder under her arm as she headed for the door. Jim was unable to restrain his double take as he realized for the first time her backpack *was* dark purple all right, but there was also a picture of Winnie-the-Pooh embroidered on the top flap. He looked up, directly into icy grey eyes challenging him to make an issue of the applique. With a single sideways nod and a somewhat larger smile, Jim stepped aside as Morag arrived at the door, Blair suddenly noticing that she was leaving.

"Oh, man, Morag, I'm sorry--"

Already out the door and in the hall, Morag swung around to face the anthropologist. Backing away as she spoke, the smile she gave Sandburg almost overcame the makeup.

"As someone once told me, 'don't sweat it.' Between what you've said and the red ink Professor Mickelson drenched it with, I think I've got the idea. I've only got two weeks until my defense, anyway, so it's sink or swim at this point. Thanks for your time." Sketching a half-salute at Blair with the folder, she was gone.

Jim made a show of sniffing the air after she left.

"You know, I would never have guessed Elvira would go for bubble gum flavored lip gloss."

Disconnecting his laptop now, Blair froze, then looked up at Jim, eyes wide.

"*Don't* call her that, man!" He hissed, looking worriedly at the now empty door.

Jim shrugged, and stepped further into the office.

"Elvira? Tell me it's worse than the name she's already stuck with." Jim made scooping motions with his hand, ignoring Blair's obvious distress at his comment. "The game?"

Still glaring, the shorter man slammed his laptop shut, shoved it into his pack, and grabbed his jacket. Jim went out the door in front of him, waiting quietly while Sandburg locked it.

Blair swung his backpack up onto his shoulder as the two men hurried down the hall.

"So, did you get any further on those files after I left?"

"What files? You know, Chief, you are going to give yourself some serious back problems one of these days if you keep loading that backpack like that."

"Yes, Mom. What do you mean,' what files?' You know what files I mean."

"Hey, you were having so much fun with them this morning I thought that if I did any without you it would be like taking candy from a baby." Jim paused long enough to open the main door of Hargrove Hall, holding it for Blair to go out ahead of him. He shrugged as they headed out across the parking lot. "I brought a few home to look over after the game."

Jim unlocked the passenger door for Sandburg, then headed around to his side of the truck. Blair's door opened, then his partner's voice floated over the truck.

"A few? Jim, that looks like the entire pile."

Jim opened his own door, and reached for the small paper sack resting on the seat beside the folders as he climbed in.

"Since I don't have to go in tomorrow..." He shrugged and tossed Sandburg the bag as Blair climbed into the other side. The other man barely caught the sack.

"Yeah, well, after Star Trek, okay? Tonight's episode is 'Miri' and I am NOT missing that one. That is just not an option, man." Blair squinted at the bag in the half lit parking lot. "Hey, Super Natural Deli! Thanks Jim!" His backpack landed on the floorboard as he closed his door, and Jim started the truck and headed out of Rainier's parking lot.

"I'm not about to pay for you to eat at the game. It's bad enough what they charge you to get in the place, let alone having to buy the junk they call food there."

Blair just grinned and managed to pull the first pita sandwich out of the wrapping at the same time he fastened his seatbelt. Jim concentrated on driving, nodding absently at Blair's running commentary. In typical Sandburg fashion, his roommate covered a dozen different subjects in between bites--from traffic to the game to something about Peruvian music and ancient astronomers - and Star Trek. Can't forget Star Trek, Jim thought. Gods, was he gonna have to listen to this for the rest of his life? How long were they going to be running these late night reruns anyway?

They were sitting in line, waiting to get into the covered parking garage by the stadium when a thought occurred to Jim. He took advantage of Blair's momentary silence to ask the question.

"You never told me where you first met El--Morag."

Blair's mouth was full, and he chewed frantically for a moment before answering.

"She was a student--and one of my original test subjects for my Master's thesis."

"Oh."

The line moved slowly, a vehicle and a payment at a time.

"What's she getting her degree in again? Abnormal psychology?"

In the midst of another bite, Blair glared and swallowed hard after only a couple of chews.

"No, man. I told you this already. She's getting her Master's in Sociology. Her thesis is on 'The Lack of Coming of Age Rituals and Their Effect on Post Modern American Society.' And she doesn't dress like that all the time. Underneath all that black stuff she's just another normal grad student."

"'Normal' and 'grad student' are not necessarily compatible terms, Chief."

"There's no need to get nasty, Jim." They exchanged grins in the semi-darkness of the truck cab.

"Shut up and eat. You can't take that stuff inside."

Jim shifted into gear, and moved up one more space in line. Sandburg chewed some more.

Several minutes later Jim pocketed a wallet considerably lighter for the privilege of covered parking, and something Blair said finally clicked.

"Hey, you said Morag was one of your original test subjects? Did she have any hyper senses?"

"Well, she was borderline in touch. Not quite over the line, but close. She did qualify as fully hypersensitive in one sense, though."

Jim parked the truck in what had to be the last space in the fifth level of the garage and turned the key off, frowning as he caught his roommate's expression. Blair looked positively gleeful. What the...? His roommate's grin grew with Jim's confusion. When Sandburg finally said it, the word was barely understandable around the last bite of pita sandwich shoved into his mouth, but Jim understood. He understood enough to know his feet were both inserted in his mouth, probably to a terminal point when it came to one Rainier grad student by the name of Morag Gilbertson. Blair gave his Sentinel a moment to stare resignedly into the night around them, to contemplate the full magnitude of his blunder while the Guide chewed and swallowed. Then he said it again, and this time he was *definitely* gleeful.

"Hearing, man. Morag has ears just as good as yours."

 


	2. Chapter 2

_"Time present and time past_

_Are both perhaps present in time future,_

_And time future contained in time past."_

_\---T.S. Eliot_

_   
_

 

Sandburg must have been sitting up late with those old files because he caught the cell phone before the second ring. Too late, though, for Jim's sensitive hearing to ignore it. With a resigned sigh, Jim rolled over onto his stomach. Pulling the pillow over his head, he refused to listen in to the conversation his roommate was having on the phone in the dead of night. Glancing at his clock, Jim amended that. A quarter to one in the morning wasn't exactly the dead of night, but it was close, close enough that Jim did not enjoy being woken out of a sound sleep for this. Blair had better get this person straightened out about these phone calls--yesterday.

Even through the pillow Jim heard Sandburg's door creak open. He lifted his head slightly, sliding out from under the pillow, tuning in to Blair's conversation as the second step up to Jim's room creaked under his roommate's weight.

"Okay, who is watching you? Why are afraid he'll hurt you?"

Jim was sitting up now, swinging his feet off the bed to the floor and reaching for his robe as he focused his hearing more tightly. The female voice responding to Blair from the cell phone sounded young--very young.

_"I- I- I don't know his name! Emby, she knows, but she won't talk about him, she won't, she can't..._" A sniff and a stifled sob, then, Blair's caller continued in a breathless rush, "_But he's watching and she's so scared! And I don't want to get in trouble, they''ll be so mad at me if I tell anyone, but she's always mad and I don't care what she says, if Emby's gone we'll all be lost."_

_/What the...?/ _

Blair was at the top of the stairs now, the concerned frown on his face obvious to Jim even in the night darkness. The younger man's robe hung open over his boxers and tank t-shirt; evidently the phone call had caught him just getting ready for bed. Extending his hearing a bit more, Jim quickly found the heartbeat behind the words. If this was just a crank call the pulse rate would give them away...Nope, the heart rate was up there, accurate for a child. He shook his head at Blair as his roommate sat beside him on the bed. The younger man tucked the phone under his chin and stabbed at his palm with one finger. Jim rolled his eyes and shook his head again as he shot up from the bed. He must still be half asleep if Sandburg had to remind him of something that basic. Two steps to his dresser, and he was pulling his cell phone out to dial the station.

"I don't want that, I don't want them to be mad at you, and I wouldn't want you to be lost. But, if you need help, you did the right thing to call. My friend, he's a policeman, and we'll do everything we can to help you both, okay? What can you tell me without getting in trouble?" Warm and reassuring, Blair's voice was yet calm, matter of fact. The man was a natural when it came to dealing with distraught people. Not like he hadn't had lots of practice in the last couple of years.

_"I'm not supposed to tell anything--no one is. That was the deal. Sheena says we can take care of ourselves, she won't let him get us, but she didn't stop it before and he was watching last night, jus' watching, and I'm so scared and Emby liked you, you and your big man, so I thought maybe..." T_he voice halted, and someone swallowed. Almost inaudibly then, she whispered, "_But maybe you can't. No one did before, no one heard, no one came, it didn't matter how good any of us were--_" The small voice broke off again, but before Blair could interject anything,_ "She was right; we have to take care of ourselves."_

And the child's voice was gone, right as the phone in Jim's hand stopped ringing and the dispatcher's voice came on the line.

"Cascade Police."

Blair just sat there, staring at the open cell phone while Jim identified himself and told the dispatcher it was a false alarm. Jim flipped his phone shut and turned back to his roommate. Blair sighed deeply and looked through the darkness in Jim's general direction.

"She didn't even tell me her name." Another deep sigh. "If this is a joke, it's pretty sick, man."

Jim's cell phone dropped on the dresser beside his wallet. He was silent for a moment.

"I don't know if it's a joke or not, Chief. I couldn't hear much, but the heartrate was right for a kid about what, five? Maybe six?"

Blair nodded, staring miserably into the darkness now. Two steps back across the room, and Jim sat beside his partner, put one hand on his shoulder.

"You don't recognize the voice?"

Blair shook his head, slowly closing the phone.

"Man, I don't think I even know anyone with a kid that age, at least not well enough for this..." He gestured helplessly with the silent cell phone. "And no one named Sheena or 'Emby.' Emby. What the hell kind of a name is that?"

Jim squeezed his roommate's shoulder, then took a deep breath himself.

"It's probably a nick name or something." Which meant it was going to be all that much more difficult to try to track the caller down. Jim closed his eyes, and a ghostly image of his roommate floated up in his mind's eye, Blair being mobbed by little girls wanting *his* business card too. Well, okay, there were almost as many boys as girls in the small crowd, but the image persisted. "You know, it could be one of the kids from the school the other day. Is your cell phone number on those cards?"

Sandburg froze for a moment, then his gaze met Jim's.

"I didn't even think about that, but yeah, the cell number was on that one batch. Took it off when I got the new cards printed, with my new office number, but I probably still had some of the old ones in my wallet."

Jim nodded silently, then asked, "What did she say before you came out here?"

Running one hand through his hair, Blair stared at the offending phone in his hand.

"She was crying, or had been." He looked up. "Sounded really upset. She said my name again--"

"Again? You think she's the one who called last night?"

Blair nodded, running his hand through his hair again. The motion did nothing to control his long curls but spoke volumes about his state of mind.

"I'm sure of it. She said my name, and I was trying to figure out how one of my students got my cell phone number and trying to think what to say to her to get her to quit calling me before you had a cow or something about these late night phone calls and I wasn't really listening to what she said at first." Jim's hand tightened on Blair's shoulder, and the younger man paused for breath. "Then suddenly it dawned on me she was telling me something about _him_ being back and she was scared he was gonna get them again and there wasn't anyone else she could call and he's watching and Emby's afraid of being hurt--again. That's the funny thing, she's more worried about protecting this 'Emby' she keeps talking about than herself, it seems like."

"Yeah, I caught that too. It didn't make any sense to me either...unless they're sisters or something...?"

There was a brief silence in the loft as both men considered the possibility that there might be not just one, but two children in danger. Great. Just the right thought to guarantee a sound night's sleep for his partner and Guide. Jim patted Sandburg on the shoulder as he stood.

"Chief, there's not much we can do tonight. Why don't you get some sleep, and tomorrow we'll see what we can find out."

"Man, what can we do? We've got no name, nothing to go on. We can't even be sure this isn't someone's twisted idea of a practical joke!"

"Well, until we know it is a joke, I'm working from the assumption it's not. As for what we can do, remember, Blair? I work for the police. I'll call the school tomorrow and see if they have any students named Sheena or Emby. The department has some of those new cell phones with caller ID, and I'll pull some strings and get you one of those, too. And maybe see if I can dig up a digital scanner."

"Yeah, man, but what if it's too late? Think about what she said, Jim, think about it! If there's some guy watching her--what if we're too late?"

"Blair, there's nothing else we can do tonight. I'm sorry, but there's not. The best thing right now would be to get some sleep so we're fresh to tackle this in the morning."

At the angry shake of Blair's head, Jim sighed. "Look, she's called you twice already, two nights in a row. She sounds like she wants your help. In the meantime, we'll do what we can on our end. She will call back. Little kids don't give their trust easily, but somehow she's given you hers. Trust me, she'll call back."

Blair stood up as well, stepping around Jim to go downstairs.

"If she can." It was low, so low only a Sentinel could hear it. Trouble was, there wasn't much Jim could say to that, Sentinel or not. He chose to ignore it.

"Get some sleep, Chief. We'll get going on this in the morning. I promise you, we'll do all we can to find her." Or find whoever's responsible if this is a joke, Jim promised himself as he watched Blair, shoulders slumped in dejection, make his way slowly down the stairs into the darkened loft.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

"Yeah, that's all, Simon. I know it's not much, but...okay. Thanks, I appreciate it...sure, sounds good. Sandburg's home, we can be there in half an hour...yeah...Okay, see you then."

Jim flipped his cell phone shut and dropped it on the coffee table in front of him as the loft door swung open. His roommate breezed in the room, hair and coattails flying.

"Hey, Jim, what's up? Mind if I shed some light on the subject, whatever it is?"

Light? Oh, yeah. Jim hadn't noticed the gathering gloom as he'd worked. This late in winter night still fell before 6:30 p.m. The loft was barely illuminated by the streetlight below and the light streaming in from the hall behind his roommate. Outside the windows, fog wreathed its way in and around the building and the city, but all that disappeared into the flat black of the windows as Jim reached for the lamp on the end table, ignoring the creak in his denim clad knees as he did so. Hopefully the creak in the couch hid it from any other ears. A flick of a switch and the room was bathed in a soft, golden glow.

Once he could see, Blair dropped his keys in the basket and kicked the door to the loft shut behind him with one foot. Arms braced on his knees, Jim didn't move from his seat on the couch, the folder he'd gripped while he talked to Simon still held partially open with one finger. Carefully, he turned up his hearing, briefly monitoring his roommate's heartbeat and breathing. All was normal, including the grin Blair sent his way as he recognized the signs of what his Sentinel was doing. How Sandburg could look both chiding and exuberant at the same time... Jim shook his head. At least his roommate seemed to have had a good afternoon and wasn't still knotted up with worry over last night's anonymous caller. This morning Blair had hardly eaten breakfast, and the shadows under his eyes had told the tale of how little sleep he'd gotten. Jim hadn't fared much better, worried in his own way about the child caller and listening to Blair toss and turn all night.

This morning, to ease both their minds and true to his promise, Jim had called Sitka School--first thing after Blair left for Rainier. During his phone conversation with the headmaster Jim was forced to admit last night's call could be a prank. There was no "Emby" at the school. A couple of students were named Sheena, and the Administrator promised to have the school counselor interview the girls. However, the detective was told politely but firmly, until they were sure the call was real, such things must be delicately handled. Jim quickly conceded that he wouldn't want to upset any child with false accusations, but his Sentinel instincts were on overdrive on this one--whether because of Blair or the child, he wasn't sure. In the end, he hadn't gotten anything else out of the man except a promise to check with teachers for the possible use of Emby as a nickname. When Jim had phoned Blair to tell him the results, or lack thereof, it was only the Sentinel's thinly veiled threats that kept the grad student from driving over to the school himself to check things out.

Now, in the soft light of the loft, he watched as Blair dropped his backpack on the floor, then shed his jacket and reached up to drop it on the hook. Dressed in his omnipresent winter get up of plaid flannel over a long john shirt and khaki pants, the too-young grad student who had first offered his help to an uptight cop with out-of-control senses didn't seem to have aged at all in the past four years--on the outside, anyway.

When his roommate's attention swung Jim's way again, he pointed over his shoulder toward the dining room table.

"There's your new phone. It's got caller id, but not much else that you didn't already have."

On the table Jim indicated sat a compact black box covered in buttons and dials, all surrounding a small amber readout screen. Next to it lay a tape recorder, a tangled pile of electronic leads, and a small cellular phone. Blair grabbed the phone and proceeded to examine it minutely before opening it and turning it on. Watching him play with the buttons and examine the readout, Jim stifled the urge to laugh. His roommate looked for all the world like a monkey with a new toy. Finally the younger looked up and caught Jim's eye.

"Cool. How'd you get it so fast? And the scanner too? I thought you'd just listen in if she called again."

"This way we can record any calls." He didn't have to say the rest: In case we need it as evidence later. "As for fast, well, I called in a few favors."

Blair's blue gaze was solemn.

"Thanks, Jim."

Jim tried to make his tone light, tried to inject some humor in what they both knew was a humorless subject.

"Don't thank me. The sooner we find out who your admirer is, the sooner I can go back to getting a full night's sleep--and the sooner we get her out of whatever it is that's going on." He pointed again, aiming a long finger at a yellow sticky note lying unnoticed on the table beside Blair's elbow. "You need to call the number there to have them switch your cell phone over. I didn't want to do it until you were home."

Blair nodded. He came over and sat on the arm of the couch before he finally seemed to take in the fact that Jim was surrounded by a sea of manila folders--manila and used tissues, the white blobs scattered like small blossoms amongst the pale yellow cardstock. Folders covered the love seat and the coffee table, with a slightly taller pile resting on the couch beside Jim.

"Hey, you find anything in those?"

Jim looked from the folder in his hand to the waves of paper surrounding him, considering. The small stack beside him rested heavily against his leg, but what had he found? Anything? Something? Nothing? It was enough that he'd finally called the station and asked Simon to talk to the other members of Major Crimes, to have Rafe and H and Joel check their folders for cases matching the slim thread he thought he'd found. Now, in the fading light of day, Jim wasn't so sure. Blue eyes met blue for a moment in the half-lit loft.

"Maybe, maybe not."

"What do you think you see?" Dropping the phone on the couch, Blair got up and walked around in front of the coffee table to stand, arms akimbo, staring at the folders there. His belief in his Sentinel radiated through the loft like a candle in a dark room. What, exactly, that belief expected him to find, Jim wasn't sure yet. Sentinel senses weren't exactly necessary for this task; it was just plain, old-fashioned detective work. Look at all the pieces, see if any fit together. Take them apart, put them together a different way, and hope something clicked. If it hadn't been for Sandburg and his musical piles, Jim would never have seen the one thread, tiny and frail as it seemed now.

Jim tugged one sleeve of his dark green sweater back up over his elbow instead of answering right away. Blair moved around the table now to stand beside him, hands in his back pockets for one brief moment, as if looking at things from the same point of view as the larger man would give him some insight into Jim's head. Jim snapped the folder he held shut, then grabbed a tissue from the box on the floor as the sneeze came a second later. He waved Blair's concern away, closing his eyes and fighting the next three sneezes unsuccessfully. Afterward he blew his nose and looked up Blair, knowing his roommate had just noticed how red that organ was.

"Jim, man, you should have turned your sense of smell down for this!"

"I did, Chief, I did. Trust me. There's just a lot of stuff here, and I can only tune out so much of it."

Jim carefully placed the folder he held on the pile beside him, and gathered up the wads of tissue on the floor and the table. In just a few strides he was in the kitchen, disposing of them in the wastebasket. On his way back to the living area, Jim switched on a couple more lights. Sandburg was still standing at the coffee table, looking through a folder.

"Man, it doesn't pay to be on the streets in Cascade, does it?"

Jim walked around the coffee table and stood beside his friend, hands on his hips, to glance over the information in the file Blair held open. This murder victim had been a homeless male, of approximately 50 years of age. No witnesses, no motive, no solution to the murder in the sixteen years since it was committed.

"No. A lot of these get shoved aside because there's no material witness. Without someone to testify as to what happened or to motive," Jim's shrug was eloquent, "there's not much we can do, and in the case of the street people--"

"No one cares," Blair finished for him.

Jim shut his eyes. This was not an aspect of his job that he liked, not at all. But maybe he could change that, with Blair's help, for a few of these people.

"There's only so much the good guys can do, Chief. We do what we can." He surprised himself with the pained tone that crept into his voice.

Blair looked up in surprise, then his gaze softened with remorse. He waved a hand over the folders as he spoke, an ancient tribal healer summoning peace for those gone--and those who remained.

"Hey, man, I know that. It just, it just doesn't seem fair, you know? These people were someone to somebody, once, before they hit bottom."

"Yeah, Chief, I know. And, if we can lay a few of their bones to rest, this time it will be because of the mixed up files of Professor Blair Sandburg."

Sandburg grinned. There, that was better. Gently, Jim took the folder from his friend and started to gather the others into a pile with it.

“Whoa, hey, wait a minute. You wanna spill the beans here are you just gonna leave me twisting in the wind?”

"Chief, I’m not sure there are any beans to spill. Look, I called Simon just before you came home. He's gonna have the rest of the guys check their piles and see if they have any cases that match the slim lead I might have found. Until then, I’d rather not say. Besides, we’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

“Late, late for what? Jim, really, man, what did you find?”

Jim dipped one shoulder to give his roommate a bodily shove towards the backpack still lying on the floor beside the door.

"We've been invited to dinner. Believe it or not, Simon's buying, that new Chinese place over by the University you've been wanting to try. Why don't you go put that backpack away where it belongs and we can go. We're going to be late as it is."

"Simon's buying? Whoa, hey, that's great! Oh, man, it is so definitely 'All You Can Eat' night!"

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

_"Everyone is more or less mad on one point."_

 

_\--- Rudyard Kipling_

 

 

 

"'Bout time you two showed up. I've been waiting for twenty minutes." Threading their way through the maze of crowded tables to where Simon Banks waited, Jim and Blair ignored the frown directed at them. Even sitting down the dark captain appeared larger than most of the other patrons in the Chinese restaurant. The two late arrivals dropped their coats over the back of a single chair and sat, Jim sighing wearily. Seemed like he'd been sitting all day, looking at those folders. He waved one hand at Blair.

"Sorry, between the fog driving over here and the fact Sandburg had to try out his new toy..." Jim shrugged. "Kid wanted to program all his speed dials before we left."

Blair grinned wickedly as Simon's glare shifted his way.

"Hey, man, gotta be prepared." He reached over and pulled the new phone out of the front pocket of his khaki jacket. Flipping it open, he pointed at the numbers as he expounded. "Jim, you, Cascade P.D., Rainier, Wanda, Bambi, Chantal..."

Simon's bass voice rumbled with laughter as he held a hand up pleadingly.

"Stop right there, Sandburg! I do *not* want a dissertation on your love life! Not before dinner, and most certainly not afterward. And, considering that's an official Cascade P.D. cell phone, the less I know at this point, the better!"

Blair's retort was cut off by another voice.

"Captain, I'm glad to see your friends finally made it."

Glasses of water appeared in front of Jim and Blair, and a menu encased in dark green vinyl was extended towards Jim. Wait a minute...he knew that voice, knew that scent. The Sentinel looked up into cool grey eyes that held his mockingly for a moment, before flickering down to the menu she held out in one dark-purple-nailed hand.

Tonight Morag wore a fitted, knee-length dress of silky jade material. The black stockings remained, but instead of the lace up boots the long legs ended in practical black flats. In place of her usual Gothic makeup she wore only a dark shade of red lipstick. Long dark curls neatly gathered into a ponytail held by a large silver barrette, spider web earrings replaced by simple dangling bars with pearls at each end, Blair's fellow grad student looked...well, mostly normal. Attractive, even. His jaw slack with shock, Jim took the menu mutely. Ignoring him, Morag smiled at Simon as she offered him a menu next. Without the makeup to overcome, the smile was most effective.

"Morag! Hey, I didn't know you worked here!" Blair's smile was infectious, and Morag laughed.

"Whoa, Blair Sandburg admitting he doesn't know something and in public to boot. That's got to be a first! Wait until I tell your anthro 101 students you're not quite the all-knowing god you claim to be!" Blair laughed, and Morag winked at him before looking back at Simon. "Quite honestly, sir, I didn't think a man of your obvious charm and intelligence would be this hard up for friends."

Morag didn't deign to notice one of those friends as Simon chuckled.

"Well, Miss, I'm sure somewhere in the world it must be 'Be Kind to Animals Week.'"

"Hey!" Blair objected as he reached for the menu Morag was now holding out to him. "I resemble that remark!"

"No, Blair, you don't." Morag smiled sweetly at Blair, then blinked innocently at Jim. "Your partner does. And, your waitress will be here in a few minutes to take your order. Enjoy your meal." With another wink, for Simon this time, she strode away, leaving a silent table in her wake. As usual, Sandburg thought of something to say first.

"You know, Jim, I don't think there's any doubt. She heard you last night." With a sideways grin at a still-open-mouthed Jim, staring after Morag, Blair took a sip of his water from the glass before opening his own menu.

"Heard what, Sandburg? Ellison, close your mouth. You'll attract flies." Simon took a closer look at his top detective. "Are you blushing, Jim?"

Jim snapped his mouth shut, and glared at Blair for lack of anything better to do. Wasn't there a dial for blushing, or hadn't Sandburg thought of that yet? Simon stared from one to the other of his friends in confusion.

"Heard Jim say what? Who is she?" He twisted around, trying to get a better look at Morag, now out of his line of sight at the front of the restaurant.

Jim found his voice before Blair finished taking a breath.

"Morag's another grad student. Blair works with her at Rainier." Mouth closed, teeth gritted after that tidbit, he hoped Simon would accept it and forget the rest of his questions. Jim opened the menu, still trying to control his blush and only partially succeeding.

Simon rolled his eyes at Jim, and turned to Blair.

"Thank you, Mr. Eloquence. Sandburg, you want to explain just what it is that Jim doesn't want me to know?"

Blair's menu shook as he tried to hold in his laughter, and he ignored the glare Jim shot him.

"Oh, you are in so deep, Jim. Talk about ‘hoisted by your own petard.’" To Simon, he said, "Morag overheard something Jim said last night that he, like, *so* wishes she hadn't."

"Overheard? There's that word again. Will somebody please tell their *Captain* exactly what is going on?"

"Sandburg..." Jim growled from behind his menu, feeling the flush steal higher on his cheeks.

"I don't know Jim, this is pretty good. I mean, I can get mondo mileage out of this. Jim Ellison, Boy Scout incarnate, caught red-handed insulting a woman behind her back. I mean, if it was Cassie, well, no one would think anything of it. But this was Morag, man. She's innocent, perfectly innocent. Just a sweet little college grad student."

Simon's jaw dropped now.

"You didn't. Her?" Simon looked over his shoulder again, quickly finding Morag, busy seating another group of patrons, then turned back to Jim. "Why?"

Jim ducked further behind his menu.

"There were extenuating circumstances," he muttered, hoping against hope that another pair of Sentinel-like ears were absolutely *not* tuned in to the conversation at their table.

Simon leaned forward, elbows on the table, menu forgotten in front of him.

"I'm listening." The dark man's voice was velvet-sheathed steel, and Jim winced. He really, really did not want to discuss this, not with Morag across the room, able to hear every word.

Still shaking with barely repressed laughter, Blair ignored his squirming Sentinel to lean over and whisper a few brief sentences in Simon's ear. The resulting guffaw could be heard across town, Jim was sure.

"I'm impressed, Jim. When you decide to insult a woman, you do go all out, don't you?"

"Simon, could we continue this conversation elsewhere?" Jim refused to come out from behind his menu.

"I could order you to apologize."

Startled, Jim finally looked over his menu at his companions, only to have them both dissolve into helpless laughter. Simon caught his breath first.

"Damn, Jim, but that look on your face...it's priceless!"

Blair collapsed on the table, burying his head in his arms as he was taken by another fit of laughter. Simon didn't even pretend to be interested in the menu he held up now, his shoulders still quaking with amusement. Teeth clenched, jaw muscles working overtime, Jim looked away from both his friends, out over the busy restaurant. At the front of the restaurant, Morag was watching him. As their eyes met she smiled slightly, lifting one eyebrow and inclining her head his way in one brief, amused nod.

Damn. ‘Hoisted by his own petard,’ indeed.

Jim smiled ruefully at the girl. Might as well get it over with. He knew she heard his softly whispered "Apology?” Morag pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled a bit larger. Someone called her name over at the register, but her eyes met his and he saw the second brief nod she sent his way before answering the summons. Feeling somewhat relieved, Jim turned back to his friends, both still lost in the throes of their own amusement.

Well, okay, maybe he did deserve a little of this, but it was time someone got Simon and Blair under control before they hurt themselves.

Thankfully, the waitress arrived to do just that, and in the bustle of ordering dinner and drinks Jim was saved further embarrassment. After that the night returned to normal--well, as normal as things got in the Sandburg Zone, Jim thought, two hours and one Peking Duck later. But it beat staring at old files and old autopsy photos by a long shot. Only half listening as Blair expounded yet another theory about the impact of the original Star Trek series on modern American culture, Jim let his eyes wander along with his thoughts. A few seconds later, he saw Morag, teal dress just visible behind the screen of greenery shielding the waiter's station. Hands rubbing her temples, eyes screwed shut, she leaned back against the counter, the pained expression on her face one Jim could sympathize with all too well.

At that moment a nearby busboy lost the battle with an overfilled dishtub and the entire mess went crashing down to the floor, not five feet from Morag. Having turned his own hearing down the minute he entered the restaurant, Jim only winced, but Morag gasped, swayed, and would have collapsed if a blonde waiter hadn't grabbed her arm. Jim could tell she was objecting, but the waiter called another man over, a manager probably, if the tackiness of his tie was anything to go by. After a brief conversation and, over her continuing objections, Morag was escorted through the tables toward a door in the front corner of the restaurant. The sign on the door said simply, 'Office.'

"It's dead, Jim."

"Huh?"

Bright blue eyes sparkled merrily as Jim brought his attention back to the table and his friends. Blair grinned as their gazes locked, and Jim followed his Guide's pointed look down to his own plate, and the inoffensive, left-over piece of fowl he had been absently spearing with his fork for the last few minutes.

"Or, would, 'Dammit, Jim, it's dead!' be more appropriate?" Blair's grin widened as Jim shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. The silent plea went unanswered, at least as far as Jim could tell, since Sandburg just sat there, grinning happily and bouncing slightly.

Head dropping into his hands, Simon groaned.

"You have got to monitor the Kid's television viewing more closely, Jim. This Star Trek obsession he's gone off on now--"

Jim shook his head at Simon, then scowled at Blair.

"He'll get over it, Simon, like he gets over all his other little infatuations. Or, I can always cancel the cable service..." One eyebrow up, icy blue eyes tried to stare down river blue and failed--miserably.

"No way, man, I know you better than that." Blair shook his head, stabbing the table with a finger as he made his next point. "You'd have to give up ESPN One, Two and Three, not to mention Fox Sports Northwest *and* TNT's Monday Nitro World Wrestling--"

"There are only *two* ESPN channels, and I do *not* watch World Wrestling!" growled the Sentinel.

Blair just kept grinning, eyes twinkling dangerously. Jim sighed, then pointed the fork he still held at his roommate.

"Just because you happened to walk in after I fell asleep that one night--waiting up for you *again* I might add, Mr. Sandburg--and that's what was on--"

Sandburg turned to Simon, eyebrows raised inquiringly. Simon chuckled and met Jim's glare briefly before meeting the Observer's gaze and nodding.

"He was watching it," Simon and Blair pronounced in unison, then both broke out laughing again when Jim threw his fork down on the mostly empty plate with a disgusted sigh. He just couldn't win tonight. It just wasn't gonna happen.

Once again Jim was saved by the waitress as she delivered the bill and gathered up their empty plates. Simon reached for the ticket as Jim and Blair stood and grabbed their coats, the former resolutely ignoring both his roommate and his captain. Shrugging into his coat, Jim followed his companions to the front of the restaurant. Darned if he could figure out when and where had it been written that tonight's entertainment was all to be at his expense. Blair chattered contentedly at Simon's side as they waited for someone to attend to them at the register. Turning away from the noise, Jim searched briefly for Morag, but the office door in the front corner hadn't opened in the ten minutes since she disappeared in there with the manager. Jim grabbed Sandburg's elbow, interrupting the flow of words and drawing him back from the counter. Simon shot him a grateful look, then returned to the business of settling the bill.

"Chief, did you ever teach Morag about using the dials for her hearing?" Jim asked his roommate softly.

Hands in his coat pockets, Blair shook his head.

"No, man, she had it pretty well under control, and I was still just figuring things out at that point. Said most of the time she didn't even notice it. She only came to talk to me about it for the extra credit I offered in class. Didn't even realize she had any enhanced senses until I talked her into doing the tests anyway." Stepping out of the way of a couple cozily entwined arm in arm, Blair turned all the way around to face Jim. "Why?"

Jim busied himself zipping his coat. Maybe it wasn't any of his business after all. Still, that headache had to be murderous. He knew that feeling all too well, just like he knew Sandburg could help Morag. What the heck? It couldn't hurt to tell Blair; Morag was Sandburg's friend, after all.

"I noticed her having trouble earlier, looked like her head was really hurting. A busboy dropped a tub of dishes not five feet from her and she nearly passed out."

As he spoke, there was movement in the corner. The office door opened a crack, but no further. Voices could be heard, maybe not by the normal human ear, but Jim wasn't your average citizen, either. Mindful of the potential for repeat crashes of crockery, Jim carefully focused his hearing on the slightly open door.

"...fine, Mr. Wang. Please--"

"Morag, this is the fourth time you've had to go home sick in the last two weeks, and you've called in sick at least that many times. I'm sorry, but I have to have staff I can depend on, not someone who has a less than 50% chance of being able to finish her shift--that is if she even shows up in the first place." The man paused, and Jim heard Morag's breath catch.

The door swung open then, the manager standing back as if to let another go first. His Guide's hand on Jim's arm, anchoring him as he concentrated, tightened briefly as Morag stepped into view. Black cape clutched tightly before her, face paler than it ever was with the Gothic makeup, Morag stood silently, biting her lip. Jim didn't need enhanced sight to know she was trying not to cry. Then, "Mr. Wang--"

The manager shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Morag, but there's nothing I can do. You get this problem taken care of, come and see me again. I'll see what I can do for you then. Until that time, however, I am going to have to let you go. Stop by tomorrow and pick up your check."

Morag swung her cape on and reached for the omnipresent backpack lying at her feet. Head held high, she stepped out of the office and past the manager without another word. Though she didn't make a noise, Jim knew how much that effort had to cost her. God, did he know what it cost to try to keep yourself sane and functional when your senses were going nuts on you. It only took one out-of-whack dial to make the slightest sensation torture.

Hugging the outer wall of the dining room, Morag headed straight for the door. Jim couldn't tell if she was ignoring them or truly didn't see them. With her hearing out of whack, it was probably all she could do to stand up straight enough to get out of the noisy restaurant. Dialing his hearing back down, Jim looked back at Blair.

"She just got fired. One too many headaches."

Blair swore softly, his eyes on Morag, now trying to shake off the blonde waiter who'd helped her earlier. Simon joined the two men just as she made her escape and fled out the front door. Blair's hand tightened again on Jim's arm.

"Jim..."

Jim nodded. He knew what his partner wanted.

"I'll catch up to you."

Blair was already headed for the entrance, turning and walking backwards long enough to say, "Thanks for dinner, Simon!" and then he was through the door. Jim heard him call for Morag as the door slammed behind him.

"What's up with the kids?"

"Nothing a little time in the Sandburg Zone won't cure," Jim quipped, then sobered at Simon's enquiring look. "Morag seems to be having some trouble controlling her hearing."

Simon nodded as he slipped his own coat on.

"Well, that's definitely out of my area of expertise. I'll leave that to you and your goofy roommate. In the meantime, I have to get home. See you at the station tomorrow?"

Jim nodded as they headed for the door.

"Sandburg has classes, but I'll be there in the morning."

"Good. See you then."

Simon headed for his car, and Jim looked through the fog for his roommate. Not seeing anyone, he tried finding his roommate by scent. That proved no safer than hearing as Simon's Cavalier roared past him. Smelled like it was leaking a little bit of oil. There! That way. Jim made sure that was Blair's herbal shampoo he smelled through the exhaust, and headed for his truck.


	4. Chapter 4

_"O Lord, sir, when a heroine goes mad she always goes into white satin."_

_\---Richard Brensley Sheridan_

 

 

Jim didn't catch up with Blair and Morag for at least two blocks. Even then he would have lost them in the fog but for the scent of Blair's shampoo that came with the cool mist through the open window. He found the pair around the third corner he turned. Facing each other at the edge of a school playground, baseball backstops looming behind them in the soft pink glow of the corner streetlight, they seemed frozen, stiff in the fog-diffused light. Blair's hands were tucked in his coat pockets; Morag stood several feet away, leaning slightly toward his roommate and holding a--

_Cigarette? _

The end of her cigarette glowed sharply red as Jim pulled over to the other side of the street. He slipped the truck into neutral for a moment before turning it completely off. What in the world was going on? How hard could it be to offer someone a ride home? Getting out of the truck, he shut the door quietly. Morag had to have had her hearing more under control, or she would have reacted when he drove up. But, "under control" and "no headache" were two entirely separate things. Putting his own hands in his pockets, Jim strode across the street.

"You were following me! Why?! WHY?" Morag's irate whisper carried clearly through the fog.

One foot on the curb, Jim stopped dead in his tracks. What the--? There was something different about her voice, it was huskier, deeper than normal. And the way she was standing, not to mention the cigarette...Jim stared for a moment as Morag took another long drag on her cigarette. Every rigid line of her body definitely --*most* definitely--radiated hostility. She favored him with a glance, and Jim took an involuntary step backwards as their eyes met.

In that one brief flicker of grey, he saw more shadows and depth than he'd ever seen in Morag's eyes. Hell, to tell the truth, her eyes were one reason Jim had never cared for her. He could get past the Gothic crap; he'd gotten used to Sandburg's neo-hippy looks after all. But her eyes, they were never...warm. Never alive. Cool grey, almost icy white sometimes, but if eyes were the window to someone's soul then Morag Gilbertson had lost her soul long ago. At the restaurant earlier tonight, her eyes had held a bit of warmth, more than normal, even a bit of humor; the soul was still carefully hidden, though. No longer. Now, for whatever reason --the headache, her out-of-control hearing, whatever--at this moment that soul was in full view, and it was a soul in torment. Jim wasn't sure he wanted anything to do with it.

"You followed me too, big man?" she growled. "I already told *fanboy* over there I don't like to be followed." Her tone made the slang term an obscenity before she dismissed Jim with a blink and turned her attention back to Sandburg.

His roommate shrugged helplessly when Jim shot a glance his way.

"Hey, man, I'm just trying to figure out when it was decided that offering a friend a ride home was a criminal offense." Blair's voice was low, his bewilderment obvious to the taller man.

Jim turned back to Morag. Extending his senses slightly, he tried to monitor her heartbeat for a moment. It was fast, too fast, with a sussurating murmur to boot. He could hear the small moaning breaths she took in between puffs on her cigarette. Her pupils, narrowed to almost pinpoints even in the half-light, the haggard lines on her face, the shaking hands that lifted the cigarette for another drag, all testified to the migraine Jim knew she was fighting. Which almost made her current hostility make sense--almost.

Morag winced as a car roared by, stereo blaring even through the closed windows. Her backpack dropped to the ground along with her cigarette as her hands flew up to her head. Eyes closed, she spun blindly away from them, swaying. Jim covered the distance to her in three long strides and caught her elbow before she could fall all the way, and for a moment she relaxed against him, accepting his help. Blair was there too, gently grasping her other elbow, one hand resting lightly on the center of her back, talking in that quiet way he had. Not quite his full Guide voice, but weaving his own peculiar magic with that soft, hypnotic tone.

"Morag, picture a dial, like for your stereo or something. Just think of that, and make the connection to your hearing, make that connection and--"

"NO!" Morag jerked away from Jim and Blair, her hands flying back up to her head an instant later in response to her own cry.

"No." She whispered it this time, tears of pain flowing as she did so, staggering away across the playground, into the fog, heedless of the pack she'd left behind. "Don't _touch_ me. Don't follow me! I don't want anything from you!"

Blair was after her in a minute, Jim not far behind, pausing to snag the pack on the ground as he passed it, and carefully stepping on the cigarette that had landed, smoldering, in the grass a few feet away.

"Morag, wait!" Blair called softly. "Please, look, we know you're in pain, and I can help you, I really can, if you'll only let--Morag!"

But Morag wasn't waiting, wasn't listening. Blair jogged up behind her and grabbed her shoulder, only to fall back with his hands up when she turned on him, her eyes wild, fingers clawing at his face. Jim was there first, dropping the pack and grabbing her wrists, pulling her away from his Guide, his strength almost not enough for Morag's desperation as she writhed and struggled in his grasp. In one smooth move, without letting go of her arms, Jim twisted her around so that her back was to him, then tightened his grip so that he was holding her against his chest, fully prepared to take her all the way to the ground if she decided to do more than just flutter kick with her feet. She didn't, and though Jim tried to hold the struggling woman lightly, he knew she'd probably have bruises tomorrow where his large hands gripped her forearms.

"Let me go, don't touch me, don't touch me, get away, you followed me! Just get away and leave me alone. Don't TOUCH me!" Her voice barely audible, she wasn't giving up.

"Jim, let her go," Blair whispered worriedly, one hand on Jim's elbow. Jim almost laughed at the surreal contrast: the wild woman struggling in his arms, doing her best to claw her way through him, and yet everyone whispering as if they were afraid to wake a sleeping baby.

"I'll let her go when she quits trying to claw someone," Jim, too, spoke quietly, but Morag heard the weight of authority in his voice. She quit struggling after a moment, stood rigid, but he could feel the effort it took her, hear the whimpers, felt the trembling, the shuddering she couldn't control, could literally feel her flesh crawling at the touch of his body against hers. What had Sandburg said yesterday? Morag had the ears, she had ears of a Sentinel, but she was also borderline in touch...

Morag flew out of his arms as Jim released his hold on her. His arm across Blair's chest prevented his roommate from stepping up behind her again. She stood a few feet away, her back to them, shivering, her hands flying again, only this time brushing at herself--as if brushing something off. Eyes narrowed, Jim watched for a second, then dropped his arm, looking at Blair and raising his eyebrows slightly. He didn't have to say what he was thinking. Morag was Sandburg's friend, the next move was up to the anthropologist. Hands limp at his sides, Blair shook his head slowly, then sighed. He stepped closer to Morag, one hand going out. Jim tensed, but the Guide stopped just short of touching her.

"Morag," Blair whispered, his tone soothing, conciliatory.

"No." She whimpered then, and it took Jim a second to connect the sound with the backfire of a car on the main road, several blocks away.

Fingers of one hand still just short of her elbow, Blair kept trying.

"Morag--"

"Don't you understand English, Blair?" she hissed, swirling around to face him. Jim gave Blair full marks for bravery, for not stepping back in the face of the rage now pouring from Morag. The Sentinel stepped up protectively next to his roommate. This time Morag pinned him with those cold eyes.

Jim caught his breath. Closer to her now, the shadows shifting in her eyes were almost overwhelming. He felt his own sight expanding, unconsciously drawn in to look closer, to see...what?

Hell. That's what it was.

Whoever thought hell was fiery had never seen the icy glare that engulfed him now. Hell wasn't hot, it was cold, arctic, sub-zero stinking frigid; shattered souls peering out of frozen grey eyes, myriad shards of ice glittering, spiraling, white on grey on white in a kaleidoscopic whirl, all melting into one wintry, raw, frozen moment of torment, drawing him in and in and...

Blair's touch on his arm brought Jim out of the mini zone out, as Morag's gaze slid away from Jim, back to Sandburg. She stood almost nose to nose with the shorter man and hissed, "I said no! N-O spells no, or didn't you get to watch Sesame Street growing up?"

Blair didn't back up, returned her look for look.

"As a matter of fact, no, I didn't." Blair waited, and when Morag didn't answer, just looked away, he touched her elbow and asked, softly, "What the hell is going on, Morag? What's wrong?"

Irritably, she twitched inside her cape, then took two quick steps away from them--away from Blair's hand on her arm.

"What does it look like, Blair? I have a migraine, I just lost my fourth job in the last six months, and all I want to do is get home."

"This is more than just a migraine, there's more going on here than your hearing being out of control. I'm your friend, Morag, you can trust me, you know that. And, you can trust Jim. Talk to me, Morag, tell me what is going on."

She didn't have an answer for that, fumbling instead in the depths of her cape and coming up with another cigarette and a lighter. Catching both their eyes as she lit the slim paper cylinder, she took a deep drag and shrugged, the lighter disappearing back into the cape as she rubbed her temple with the hand holding the cigarette. Her eyes closed wearily before opening and meeting Blair's concerned gaze again. She waved the cigarette in the air.

"For stress relief it beats straight shots of Double Tee, and it's legal, which is more than you can say for bong hits and shooting up." The smile she offered with that whisper was a grotesque caricature of the one they'd seen just hours ago. Morag must have seen that on their faces, or else the effort to maintain it was too great. The smile disappeared as her gaze flicked away from the two men. "Besides, it helps the headaches."

Blair shifted, his hand dropping to his side. Jim knew the younger man's confusion had to be as deep as his own. The Sentinel understood what a migraine could do to you, how out-of-control senses made you crazy, wanting to be rid of the stimuli, the pain, any way you could, but Morag's behavior far exceeded anything he'd ever seen--or experienced--himself.

Blair took a deep breath, then spoke, still pitching his voice well below normal hearing range.

"You know, even if you don't give a damn about yourself, Morag, there are some people who do. You could at least have the decency to let them care."

"Don't." The single, soft word, coldly spoken, cut across Blair's lower, warmer tone, and Jim heard Sandburg literally choke back whatever else he had been prepared to say. They both stared silently at the woman in front of him.

"Don't what?" Jim finally asked. The grey eyes flicked to him again. The torment was there, more in check now than a second ago, but undeniable.

"Care." The eyes held his for a moment, and then suddenly she turned and ran. Blair started after her, but Jim grabbed him, restrained him, his whispered "Wait" calming Blair's immediate protest. They watched in silence as she dodged through the playground equipment, sawdust muffling her footfalls and then she disappeared into the fog beyond them, never looking back at all.

As soon as she was out of sight, Jim gave Sandburg a push back toward the truck, kicking the pack at him for good measure. The keys Jim held out and a silent look conveyed his meaning well enough, and Blair nodded once before snagging both pack and keys as he headed for the truck at a run. Jim turned to follow Morag, stretching out his senses and seeking her as he went. Blair should catch up soon enough.

Jim followed Morag easily, the small gasps and whimpers as she ran, the scent of the cigarettes a better trail than bread crumbs for the Sentinel. He moved as quietly as he could, waiting on a corner until Blair caught up with him in the truck, and then Blair would stop just before the corner to watch and wait until Jim had tracked Morag to the next corner before pulling up there and starting the whole cycle again.

It wasn't until Jim heard the faint squeal of nails, the short cry Morag couldn't contain even at that slight sound that he realized they'd tracked her all the way home. She fumbled for the key--behind?--beneath a loose board, Jim decided, as he waited, listening, at the corner of a street filled with old bungalow style homes. Well cared for, most of them were converted into apartments now. Morag opened the door to one of those apartments. Jim let the door shut before allowing himself to walk slowly up the street, tracking the sounds. There. The second floor apartment of the house across from him, the one with the dark green dormers.

Standing in the shadows of a large rhododendron, Jim watched one small light come on, and since the blinds were too tightly drawn for even a Sentinel's sight, he listened again. Morag's heartbeat had slowed minutely, the susurating murmur gone completely now. She was still gasping in pain though, small whimpers accompanied by the sound of a bottle opening, liquid pouring into a glass. Then a different sound, one he identified by the soft rattling and clicking a second later as pills, also poured from a bottle. Most of the pills she poured back, and Jim released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Quickly piggybacking his sense of smell on hearing, Jim caught a sniff of what Morag tossed back with the pills she did keep, and he sighed as she tossed back a couple more shots for good measure. Well, he could hardly blame her.

Soft footfalls staggered over to another part of the apartment and someone collapsed on what sounded like a bed. Jim eavesdropped for a few moments more as Morag got up again, the bolt lock at the door sliding into place with a sharp report that had her crying out and left Jim's ears ringing. It took a moment to get things back under control, and after one last reconnaissance with ears and nose, he went back to the corner to wave Sandburg forward.

Sandburg gave up the driver's side and slid over without protest when Jim climbed into the truck

"She's home, sounds like she took something for the pain." It wasn't much of a decision *not* to elaborate everything Morag took for her pain.

"Well, we have to go see if she's okay, man, there's not much--" Blair's hand was on the door handle as he spoke. Jim grabbed him before he could get the door open.

"Chief, the last thing she wants right now is company. Trust me." Sandburg took a deep breath, started to object, but Jim's grip didn't lessen. "Look, I heard her go into her apartment and lock her door. Yes, she's still in pain, but, like I said, she took something for it, and she's home and safe. Trust me, it's not worth getting your ears pinned back again to try to talk to her tonight. Besides, you'll miss Star Trek if we don't get home soon."

Ignoring Jim's attempted levity, Blair shook his head. After a long minute he let go of the handle, and leaned back in the seat, one hand reaching up to run through his hair.

"I guess you would know, wouldn't you?"

Jim nodded, letting go of the younger man. He found the key and started the truck, warm now from the cross-town chase. Pulling the lights on, Jim checked out the back window for traffic, then put the truck into gear and turned a corner away from Morag's apartment. They weren't far from the university; with this thick fog it would take at least twenty minutes to get back to the loft.

His roommate sat, fidgeting as he stared silently at the buildings flowing through the fog outside his window.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"What's Double Tee?"

"Double Tvarsky, Chief. One hundred eighty proof vodka." Exactly what he'd smelled tonight.

"Oh."

Jim waited patiently for the outburst that he knew was coming, just as sure as they knew Mt. Rainier would go up one day, sooner or later.

"She meant it, didn't she?"

"Meant what, Chief?"

"What she said. 'Don't care.'"

"I think so."

"Well, as someone once said, it's about friendship. And, last time I checked, that meant caring."

"That's what it meant last time I checked too." Jim played his trump card then, reaching down by Blair's feet to pull the dusty backpack from the floorboard. "She'll be missing this." The younger man stared wide-eyed at the pack. Jim dropped it on the seat, steering the truck around a corner onto the main thoroughfare that would lead them back to the loft. As they made the turn, the pack slid into Blair, and he reached out and fingered the Winnie-the-Pooh applique.

"Yeah, I can drop it off tomorrow. It's just, I've known Morag for what, five years now? I have never, I mean *never* seen her act like that. We even dated a few times and she got pretty upset that time when I--but never like this. *Never* like this." Shaking his head for emphasis, Blair went back to inspecting the fog-shrouded view out his window.

Jim waited, and, when nothing more was forthcoming, he tried to prime the pump a bit.

"You dated Morag? Somehow I never figured her for your type. Besides, I thought you didn't date students." That earned him a glare. Good, better than quiet-staring-out-the-window Sandburg.

"Hey, it was cool, man. I waited until after she got her B.A., when she showed up for grad school that fall, to ask her out." Still fingering the applique, Blair shook his head. "You should have seen her then, Jim. She had long, and I mean long hair, it fell down below her hips in ringlets, man, ringlets and you just wanted to..." Blair's fingers twitched as his voice faded, and Jim smiled. Trust Sandburg, some things never changed. His roommate continued, "Her natural hair color really is black, you know, not purple, but the kind that's auburn in the sun? Man, with that long hair, those eyes and those legs and none of that purple makeup and black clothing crap she was something!"

"Yeah, so, what happened?"

"Oh, we figured out about the fourth date we weren't really each other's type." Blair's voice was high, tight, and Jim heard the pounding of his heart. Waiting through a red light, he accelerated smoothly as it finally turned green. He cast a look at his too-quiet partner.

"Yeah, so, what happened?" Jim repeated.

Blair rolled his eyes at Jim.

"This human lie detector routine can be a real drag, you know that?"

Jim grunted an assent, and waited.

Blair sighed.

"We went back to my apartment. I figured, you know, a little wine, a little music, a little sex. We're all big grad students now, right? Anyway, she was going along with the program--hell, she was enjoying the program and then I don't know, we got to the part where you take your clothes off. I touched her up under her shirt and she flat freaked, man. I was on the floor and she was across the room and out the door all in the same instant. Never seen anyone move that fast in my entire life."

Uh oh.... Jim stole a sideways look at his roommate, the image of Morag tonight suddenly superimposed over Blair sitting quietly in the truck, Morag brushing off what he suddenly knew had to be any physical contact with either of them. The memory shifted, now it was Morag quivering as Jim held her tightly, trying to protect them all from her clawing fingers...then images of Morag all the other times he'd seen her, self-contained, controlled, very much in her own space and *not* touching anyone or anything. Even leaning over Blair's shoulder in his office the other night Morag wasn't touching him. 'Hands OFF!' might as well be stenciled in big yellow letters on her cape.

Jim sighed, hints and clues suddenly shifting, coalescing, the puzzle he hadn't even seen falling into place Damn.

_/For as perceptive as you are most of the time, Sandburg, you missed this one outright, didn't you?/_

"Looks like you made up all right." Jim kept his tone casual, knowing he wasn't the only one with lie detection capabilities.

"Yeah, well, I do know how to take 'No' for an answer." Still staring out the window, Blair shrugged. "We saw each other the next day and we both apologized. She was fine, and we were friends after that, good friends. Sometimes it seemed like we were the only clean ones at a few too many parties. Then one day about halfway through spring semester she just disappears. It wasn't too long before I found out about you. A bunch of us were going out, only Morag was late. I waited for her, but she never showed and when I went by her apartment the next day they said she was gone. I thought it was a scam, but it was true. She'd split without a word. Left all her stuff and blew town. Came back the next fall, after I'd started working with you. She'd gotten into all this Gothic crap while she was gone. Never would say where she'd been or why she left. Other than the Halloween fashion show she still seemed like the same old Morag, though. Maybe a bit quieter."

One elbow on the window, fingers rubbing absently at his forehead as he drove, Jim didn't say anything, not sure how to tell Blair what he was thinking. He'd seen too many other women like Morag in his time with Cascade P.D. All of them women who walked the same way, who reacted like Morag tonight when Jim had grabbed her. Just children, some of them, older women sometimes, some who even plied the oldest trade around, but the hell in their eyes was all the same. Even in Peru there had been two Chopec women, sisters, out in the forest gathering flowers for one's wedding when they were taken by a rival tribe's warriors, before his time as Sentinel. Actually, Jim couldn't blame Sandburg, because he'd missed it too. He'd seen what Morag wanted him to see, the black, the stand-offishness, and hadn't gone any further, dubbed her 'Elvira' in mockery, and never thought to see what it was he was truly mocking.

"What are you thinking Jim?"

Jim took a deep breath, glanced over at his roommate before exhaling softly.

"That there's more to Morag than meets the eye."

Blair let go of the Pooh applique and faced Jim, his eyes wide, the twinkle in them unmistakable even in the darkness of the truck's cab.

"_You_ are telling _me_ that there's more to Morag than meets the eye?"

"Sandburg..." Jim growled, welcoming the teasing, letting it clear the air and hoping it closed the subject for his roommate.

Shifting in his seat, Blair seemed to welcome the banter as well. One hand resting on the door now, pointing at Jim with the other, Blair chuckled.

"Hey, man, I just want to be sure I have this straight. You, the man who tagged her 'Elvira' from the first time he met her, are telling me that there's more to Morag than meets the eye? Flow with me here, Jim, I just want to get my facts straight, good research and all, you know that."

Jim didn't add that Blair was *not* going to like what "more" was, just went along with it.

"Yes, Sandburg, I am, or did you shake your head too hard back there and all your brains flew out your ears?"

Both hands went out in the classic conciliatory gesture as Sandburg shook his head.

"Hey, no need to get hosti--"

Blair's cell phone shrilled then, and both men scrambled. The grad student frantically dug his cell phone out of his coat pocket. Jim, realizing there was no way to make the remaining distance to the loft and all that wonderful equipment sitting there, waiting for this call, swerved over to the curb, pulling into an empty parking lot in front of a used book store.

Blair was staring at him, despair etched on his face when Jim looked up from digging his own cell phone out of his coat pocket. Jim followed his glance down to the LED display, where the caller ID function neatly displayed "BLOCKED."

Damn! Dueling technologies and this time the good guys lost. Blair flipped the phone open, one hand reaching for Jim's shoulder as Jim dropped his own phone on the seat beside them and prepared to listen in to the call.

_"Blair!"_

The tiny voice was desperate.

"I'm here. What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Jim waited with his roommate, focusing his hearing on the small voice sobbing through the earpiece, then trying to reach beyond it, glean what clues he could from background noises. Trouble was, other than the racing heartbeat and occasional whimpers and gasps, there wasn't much to be heard. No traffic, some wind in the trees, but nothing substantial, nothing that would help them help this tiny person out. A dripping faucet, someone--no, several someones, breathing deeply, asleep in other parts of the house.

_"She hurts, Blair, she hurts and I don't know what to do!"_

Jim sorted and separated out three different heartbeats, adults he thought, and at least two more that were probably children. Hard to be sure which was which when everyone seemed to be asleep, though.

"Who hurts? Please, who's hurt?"

_"Emby, she hurts, she's crying, and I can't help her, I can't!"_

Emby was hurt, she was crying. Why couldn't Jim hear her then? The small voice was alone in her room, he was certain of that.

"Okay, honey, I need you to take a deep breath, okay? Take a deep breath and speak slowly--what's your name, can you tell me your name? It would make this a lot easier." Blair kept his voice calm, radiating warmth and sincerity through the connection. They both heard the deep breath from the little girl before she spoke again.

_"Persis, my name is Persis, but it's not me, it's Emby and she hurts and Sheena won't listen to me--"_

"Did someone hurt her?"

_"No, but it's his fault, he was there today, watching, and he scares her, he scares me, and Sheena's saying not to tell and not to talk and she don't like you or the big man but Emby, she wants help now and I want help, even if Sheena doesn't--"_

There was a sudden, sharp gasp, and then,

_"Blair, please, she's crying, Emby's crying, you have to help her, you have to!"_

"Persis, where are you?" Blair's fingers were digging holes in Jim's shoulder.

Dead silence, and but for the frantic heartbeat only Jim could hear, the line may as well have gone dead.

"Persis? Persis!"

_"You, you, you don't know? But, I heard--I thought you knew, I thought she trusted you, told you--"_

"Persis! Persis, listen to me. She did tell me, okay? Right now though I'm with my friend, with the big man, and we're in his truck. We're on our way, if you can just tell me where you are."

More silence. Blair's eyes were huge, pleading, seeking reassurance from Jim, begging his Sentinel to find something, anything. Jim had to shake his head. There were no clues, no hints as to where she was, just one house in a street of more houses, nothing even to place the child somewhere in the city of Cascade.

_"No! I can't tell, I can't--Emby told you, I know she did! I heard you! You know; you know! If you don't want to come--"_

"Persis, no, I want to, but I nee--"

_"I have to go now, Blair, I have to, Sheena's coming!"_

"Persis, wait!"

The "ca-thunk" of the receiver in the cradle left Jim's head spinning.

Blair's fingers digging into his shoulder again and the screech of brakes as a nearby car misjudged the yellow light brought him back to reality.

"Did you get anything?" The desperation in Sandburg's voice matched that of the young girl who'd just pleaded for their help. Reading the answer in Jim's eyes before he responded, Blair peeled his fingers off the Sentinel's shoulder, his hand dropping helplessly to the seat beside him.

Jim thought for a moment, replaying the call in his mind while he rubbed his aching joint, before sighing and shaking his head ruefully.

"No. Nothing, at least nothing substantial. There were probably three adults asleep downstairs, and a couple of kids somewhere else, and they have a leaky faucet in the basement. Other than that..." Jim shrugged, released his shoulder and reached for the keys.

"She said I knew where they were, that Emby had told me."

"I heard." There wasn't much else to say, so Jim started the truck up again.

Blair slammed the phone shut, and punched the dashboard in front of him.

"Dammit! If we just had some clue as to who this Emby was!"

Blair's rant was just winding up. Jim listened, letting Blair blow off steam. First Morag, and now this. Gee, and he'd complained about all the fun at his expense earlier. Well, if he'd known the turn--two turns--the evening was going to take, he'd have...what? Stayed home?

Hands waving, Sandburg was still talking, barely pausing for breath.

"...so we got her name, but we now have three children in danger, Persis, one named Sheena, and Emby. What the hell kind of names are those? Huh? What kind of shit names are those? Where did the parents dig those stupid names up?" One hand up in the air, staring angrily at Jim, Sandburg finally wound down. Jim saw his chance.

"She was alone, Chief."

"Huh? What do you mean she was alone? I thought you said--"

"Alone as in I couldn't find anyone else in the room with her."

"No one? Not even, what's her name, Emby?"

"Nope." Both men were silent while Jim took the truck forward, out into traffic again.

Blair tried again.

"Nothing? No other heartbeat, no crying, nothing?"

"Chief, I told you, I could hear water dripping in the basement, and about half a dozen other people asleep through out the house. But there was no one in that room with her."

Blair just stared at Jim as they turned onto Prospect street.

"So, what are you trying to tell me?"

"I don't know. Maybe we need to consider the possibility that these are prank calls. That someone's yanking your chain, getting their jollies out of harassing you."

"Oh, come on, you can't believe that, you heard her! Jim, you can't--"

"I'm not writing it off, I'm just trying to keep an open mind as to what might be going on, that's all. Please, Chief, I really don't want to argue about this now."

Sandburg didn't like that, didn't like it all. But, for once, he didn't try to argue with it. Good. Jim wasn't sure what to think himself. The fear, the terror in the small voice, that had seemed real enough. What scared Jim almost more than the fact Persis might be really a small girl in trouble was the fact that, if these calls were pranks, whoever it was didn't feel the need for an audience--which meant that this went beyond your normal juvenile jokester. This sounded like someone who was deeply disturbed, and this someone was calling his partner. It was not a comforting thought.

Lost in morbid thoughts, Jim made the last turn onto Prospect Street. Blair was still staring out the window, and the despair in his voice echoed Jim's own depression at the turn the evening's events had taken.

"Jim, why do I feel like this entire night has been one step forward and two steps back?"

Jim parked the blue and white truck and turned it off before answering his roommate.

"Maybe because it has been, Chief. Maybe because it has been."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

_"Oh, why was I born with a different face?_

_Why was I not born like the rest of my race?"_

 

_\--- William Blake _

 

The humid scents of perennially damp pavement and concrete mingled with the smells of the sea and the early afternoon city, almost overpowering even to non-Sentinel senses. The afternoon itself was grey, what sunlight there was diffused through an overcast sky. Drifting in off the Sound, their load of rain dumped over the Peninsula and the Straight, the empty clouds had flowed in quickly, smoothly, piling up against the backdrop of the Cascades and Mt. Rainier until they covered the pale, late winter sky. Or, was that a pale, early spring sky? Whatever.

Jim shrugged and rubbed his shoulder with one hand while he waited for traffic to clear before making the left turn onto Jefferson Street. It wasn't his preferred way to spend the morning, sitting at his desk composing e-mail and looking through more ancient, dust-ridden folders. But at least it meant no *new* crimes to be investigated. Just old ones. The phone call from Sandburg requesting a ride to the station from Morag's apartment had been a welcome distraction.

Today, instead of skulking around the corner like some naughty child, Jim parked the blue and white truck directly in front of the large, two-story house with dark green dormers. Turning the engine off, he focused his hearing on the same second floor apartment he'd spied on last night. Today he heard music, soft music--something classical, he thought as he identified two heartbeats, then Blair's voice.

"...the garbage truck went *right* over both of us. Man, I thought we were dead!" Blair laughed, but Morag's exclamation sounded a bit more...distressed. Uh oh. Jim decided he'd better hurry and get up there before the anthropologist's reminiscing got out of hand. Deliberately dialing down his hearing, Jim got out of the truck and followed the sidewalk around the house, just as Blair had carefully instructed on the phone thirty minutes ago, both men trying to pretend they didn't already know which apartment was Morag's. Taking the stairs two at a time, Jim found himself on a large porch that had obviously been added sometime after the rest of the house was constructed.

A bespectacled Sandburg, his clothing making the usual "thrift store" fashion statement, answered the door at his soft knock.

"Jim, hey, come on in. You don't happen to remember the brand name on that white noise generator we bought, do you?"

Jim thought for a second, then shook his head.

"Nope, sorry, Chief, you did that job all on your lonesome."

"Shoot. Okay." Blair turned and headed back into the apartment. "Morag, why don't you go back to Alta Vista and let's try again there. Maybe if we narrow the search a bit more..."

Jim's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. A quick glance around at Morag's apartment revealed a large room as dark and depressing as the woman herself. The studio took up half the upstairs of the large house. He'd just stepped through a long outer wall that was largely windows; they and another large window were heavily draped to match the dark purple paint on the windowless inner wall. The curtains were wide open and most of the lights Jim could see were switched on, their glow reflecting off the polished wooden floor, but still the room seemed shadowed. Between the greyness of the day outside and the way the room swallowed the artificial light from within...frowning, Jim fought off a series of shivers, focusing on scanning the rest of the room instead.

Immediately to his left sat a dining table, now hosting Blair's coat and both Sandburg's and Morag's backpacks. A terra cotta bowl full of gold and purple pansies provided an incongruous bright spot on the dining bar just beyond the table, and the kitchen alcove beyond that was created by the large bathroom he could just see through an open door. In the kitchen several glasses and an open pizza box sat beside the sink beneath a window looking out over the front yard.

Across from Jim, Morag sat hunched at a computer in the corner created by the bathroom and the purple wall. From there a series of overloaded bookshelves ran around that side of the room. The remainder of the room was cluttered with the usual detritus of college life--piles of papers and books and empty coffee cups on just about every available flat space, including the floor in between the bookshelves. Gee whiz, did she ever hand her students' assignments back? At the other end of the room several paperback books lay open on the floor next to a partially made futon bed; its sheets and comforter were another dark splotch in the cheerless room--burgundy, this time, not purple. Nothing like a little variety in life. The futon and a ratty, brown, overstuffed rocker were the only furniture besides the table and the computer desk.

Opposite the couch was a large stereo setup, much too large for the room itself. No photos that he could see, not of family or anything. One picture, a garish blue, yellow, and red print of pansies in a stoneware pitcher leaned on the floor between the stereo and the door. The purple wall sported a massive modern art print, a dark scene of ghostly figures hanging by the neck. Jim recognized the picture and he stared for a moment, unsuccessfully trying to conjure up the name. Maybe El Greco, but whatever and whomever, it was definitely less than cheerful, and proof in his own mind--along with the dark colors dominating the loft and the scent of bubble gum lip gloss that overrode almost every other scent in the house, even the days old Chinese take out in the garbage--that this was, indeed, Morag's apartment.

The pansies, Jim noticed as he finished his visual sweep of the apartment, were wilted.

Damn, how did she ever even get out of bed in this place in the mornings? The darkness weighed on him already, and he was usually immune to such things--or had been, until the advent of Sandburg into his life.

Shoving that train of thought away for another day, Jim turned to the pair at the computer. From what he could see they were surfing the web for something--wait, Sandburg had ordered his white noise generator from somewhere on the Net, hadn't he? Okay, that made sense. Blair stood next to Morag, leaning on the desk with one hand and the back of her chair with the other. Jim didn't miss Morag's slight movement away from his roommate as he leaned in, trying to read something on the screen.

"Damn, that's not it either. Morag, do you mind--"

She didn't mind, at least judging by the alacrity with which she gave up her seat to Blair. He plopped into the chair and began typing rapidly, pausing to click the mouse occasionally, Morag watching over his shoulder. Keeping his own careful distance from Morag, Jim walked over to join them. Hands in his jeans' front pockets, he stood a couple of feet behind Sandburg and watched for a minute, before offering, "Chief, may I remind you we've got work to do?"

Blair pushed his glasses up on his nose and typed some more before moving the mouse briefly. The screen blanked for a moment, then a new page started loading.

"Yeah, I know, just give me a minute here. It'll only take a second once I get the right page."

Jim shook his head, and looked at Morag out of the corner of his eye. Dark curls falling around a face bare of make up, her pinched and worn expression bore testimony to the previous pain-filled night. The violet sweatshirt she wore only emphasized the shadows under her eyes and made the dimpled scar on her right cheek more prominent. Her forearms were crossed tightly against her chest. Jim could just make out a dark mark on one arm. Damn, he had bruised her last night, much as he had tried not to. Morag tensed, aware of his scrutiny, but not looking at him. She lifted one eyebrow at Blair's back, still staring at the computer screen even when she spoke to Jim.

"Blair's not going to give up without a fight, so you might as well have a seat, Detective Ellison."

"Actually, I'd rather stand here and make him nervous. And, please, call me Jim." He waited until she did look up at him, and then he smiled--his best smile. Maybe it wasn't Sandburg's thousand-watt grin, but Jim knew his own particular brand of charm worked just as well. He'd used it often enough, he just didn't overwork it like his roommate there with the runaway libido. After a careful moment, his reward was an answering smile from Morag, a shy, tepid lip movement, reserved, distant, eyes carefully blank for the moment they brushed with his. None of the warmth he'd seen briefly at the restaurant last night, but none of the cold fury and fear he'd seen at the park either. However, Jim didn't miss the shifting shadows in her eyes as she looked away.

"Jim," she acknowledged, with a small tilt of her head in his direction. "Can I get you something to drink? Tea or coffee?"

"No thanks, I'm fine. Had a WonderBurger on the way over." Jim took a deep breath and rubbed his stomach as he spoke.

Blair groaned from his seat.

"Jim, man, I keep telling you, those things are gonna--"

"Shut up and finish your search, Sandburg." Jim swatted playfully at his roommate's head as he spoke. "Some of us have real jobs to get back to."

Blair ducked Jim's blow unsuccessfully, then glanced over his shoulder at Morag and shook his head.

"See what I have to put up with? I'm telling you Morag, be happy with a Master's. Do not, I repeat, do NOT go for your Ph.D. Or, at least, be sure to get a nicer subject to work with. Oh, hey, I think this is it!" His attention recaptured by the screen, Sandburg leaned closer to the computer and grabbed the mouse again.

Morag moved, then, shifting uncomfortably. Jim looked up in time to catch her wide-eyed gaze, her uncertainty at the teasing between the two men obvious. Jim shrugged and smiled reassuringly at her.

"He's Sandburg. You learn to live with it."

Morag nodded once, dubiously. The shadows shifted and flowed again in the grey eyes. Even without makeup her lashes were thick, dark. Darn, she would be pretty--very pretty--without the ghost makeup--and if you could get past the expression in those eyes.

"Okay." One hand came up to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Jim noticed the bruise on her arm again, the bruise he'd caused, however inadvertently. He winced.

"Sorry about that." Grey eyes followed his gaze down to her arm. Quickly drawing her sleeve down over the mark, Morag shrugged, once more folding her arms tight against her body.

"It's not like it was your fault. I'm just sorry to have been such a bother." Even facing him Morag wouldn't meet his gaze, staring instead over his shoulder, into the distance. Watching the subtle shift and changes in her eyes, Jim was reminded of a toy he had as a child, a Viewmaster. Pop in the disk, look through the binocular-like Viewmaster at the scene, pull the lever and watch the scene change again. Morag's eyes were like that today, emotions and impressions sliding past and through each other, cycling through faster than Jim could identify them.

He shrugged off her apology as quickly as she had his.

"I have some idea of what a headache like that can do to you. It's not fun. I take it things are better now?"

He'd noticed the earplugs when she tucked her hair behind her ear. Morag nodded.

"Some. Between the earplugs and Blair's 'dial.'" Her expression flickered, the color in her eyes shifting again. "It usually only bothers me in the spring. I've always thought it was some sort of bizarre allergy, you know, 'things are a booming out all over.' It's not usually this bad, though."

Jim smiled. Allergies, yeah, he'd been that route, looking for help with his Sentinel senses. Framing an answer, he looked up and found Morag's gaze directed straight at him. Once again the roiling emotions of last night were in the forefront of that icy gaze, though today they were more subtle, less raw, but somehow more focused. Since that focus was entirely on Jim at the moment, it was no less overwhelming than it had been last night. He had to mentally stop himself from stepping backwards, crossing his arms and shuffling his feet slightly instead. Morag didn't seem to notice his reaction.

"Blair, he said..." She swallowed loudly, then lowered her voice. "He said you have the same problem sometimes? For the same reason?"

Behind them, Blair stiffened, sitting up and looking over his shoulder at Jim with a pleading expression on his face. Morag didn't notice, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on Jim. He caught Sandburg's eyes and nodded slightly, then turned to Morag. Unsure how to read the intensity of her last question, Jim answered the first one.

"Yeah, sometimes. Between Sandburg and his dials it's pretty much under control." Jim met her eyes, returned that gaze with matching intensity. "You can trust him."

Morag flinched infinitesimally, her gaze immediately sliding away from his, over to the El Greco print. Jim waited a second as she stared at it, then, sure enough, she glanced back at him. He tried to keep his expression open, reassuring, but focused, wanting the message to get through: She could trust Sandburg, she could trust Jim himself--though Jim fully expected if she talked to anyone it would be his long-haired roommate. Blair had that effect on people; Jim was living proof of that. Still staring at him, snowy shades of gray swirling in her eyes again, Morag finally nodded once, then turned away completely. Blair had swiveled in his seat and was staring at them both, trying to catch the undertones of the exchange. Jim glared at his roommate in mock irritation.

"Aren't you done yet?" he growled.

"Just about." Blair still stared suspiciously at Jim, who put on his best innocent face. Morag stepped over behind his chair again, rubbing her arms, and Blair addressed his next comment to her. "This is the same model we got, though I don't think you need one this large, Morag. You're not dealing with the same square footage we have. There are a couple other models..." With another look at Jim, Blair swung around and reached for the mouse.

Both his companions now engrossed in the on-line catalog, Jim found himself drawn to the massive stereo set up. Behind him, Blair and Morag discussed the merits of various white noise generators. Jim grinned as Blair offered to float Morag the money to order one if she needed it. The idea of his perennially broke roommate having enough money to loan anyone...still, he listened in, determined to help out if necessary, until Morag said something about having enough money left from her father's settlement to take care of it. After that it was all a matter of filling out the online order form, so Jim tuned out the clicks and clatter, turning his attention back to the stereo.

Speakers almost as tall as he was flanked an impressive array of equipment, and one whole side of the shelving system that held the stereo was devoted to cd's. There were two family photos there, almost hidden between two silk ficas on the top shelf. One was a black and white wedding photo of a smiling couple in a heavy pewter frame. At first glance Jim thought it was Morag in the short white dress, leaning shyly back against the tall, dark-haired Marine in his dress blues. A second look revealed it to be a different woman, hair swept up and back from her gentle smile. The other photo was a candid shot of the happy family a few years later. Summer, it must have been, Morag and her mother were attired in spaghetti-strapped dresses, laughing as they blew a cloud of bubbles; her father, still with military sidewalls, attired in shorts and looking on with bemused pride just behind them. Morag couldn't have been more than six or seven in the photo, and there was no doubt she was her mother's daughter.

Moving on with his inspection, Jim found his favorite Santana cd amidst a confusing mix of acid rock, classical, and what looked like New Age meditation music--and several Sesame Street cds. Sesame Street? Those must go with the child's play set he noticed in the nook created by the far speaker and the outside corner of the apartment. A map of the Hundred Acre Wood lurked against the wall, almost hidden by the curtain next to it, and munchkin sized chairs around a small table hosted a large doll, a much-worn flop-eared rabbit, and a faded Winnie-the-Pooh. Crumbs and cookie pieces bore stale testimony to a recent tea party. Beside the table sat a basket of children's toys, predominately feminine in nature. Jim frowned. Morag did *not* strike him as an ideal babysitter. Still, growing up as he had in an all-male household, and going straight into the military, he wasn't exactly an expert on babysitters or children in general.

Which might have explained why he found the tiny figurines that sat on a shelf built into the window behind the small table so fascinating. Tea sets, Jim realized after a minute's scrutiny, miniature tea sets, small enough he could hold two in the palm of his hand. He reached for one tiny teacup from a set seemingly made of pansies and mice. Inspecting it more closely with his Sentinel eyesight, he caught one spot where the painter had missed and daubed the wrong color, but all in all, the detail was impressive. Standing right beside the speaker, caught up in his examination of the minute detail before him, Jim suddenly shivered. All the hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, but before he could figure out where the sensation was coming from, a voice spoke at his elbow. Jim nearly dropped the small teacup.

"That was the first one I ever got. Mom gave it to me for my birthday the year she died. She loved pansies."

The tea cup rescued from an untimely demise on the bare wood floor, Jim swung around to find Morag smiling at him, openly, trustingly, an unfamiliar light in her eyes. Belatedly, he realized it was happiness--Morag looking *happy?*

Oblivious to his stare, she continued, "We had a tea party for my friends, with hats and gloves and everything. It was way cool." The smile radiated from her, and she actually bounced on her tiptoes, long curls rebounding around her face. For a brief second Jim saw the girl Blair had described last night--a much younger version of that girl, but she was there, none the less. Grey eyes met blue, impish grey eyes, and Jim knew his own eyes had to be practically bugging out of his head when Morag winked at him.

"Okay, that's it." Blair's comment interrupted the moment, and after the pair by the tea party had looked at him, and then back at each other, the familiar detached expression had returned to Morag's face. She deftly retrieved the small cup from Jim- without touching his fingers at all, he couldn't help noticing. Her own fingers flicked over the tiny item, brushing it off before she placed it back with its companions. Sliding around a very confused detective, Morag glided over to where Blair was collecting his pack and coat.

"Thanks for lunch, Morag," Blair said, as Jim followed Morag to the door. The Sentinel had all he could do to keep himself from staring outright at the woman. Where in the world had all that come from? Belatedly, he realized he was being asked a question. Blair met Jim's blank look with his own puzzled expression.

"One of your business cards, Jim?" the younger man repeated, gesturing with the pen he'd conjured up from somewhere.

"Oh, yeah. Here you go." Jim took out his badge wallet, retrieved a card from it and handed it to his Guide, avoiding the question in those blue eyes at the same time he was trying to avoid looking at Morag. What in the hell had he just seen? The hair was standing up on the back of his neck again, and he absently rubbed at it. Blair scribbled a couple of numbers on the card before holding it out towards Morag.

"Here, you've already got my cell phone number, but this is the loft, and this is Jim's cell phone. You call if you have any more problems with your hearing, okay? Until you get really good at controlling this you're gonna need help. You call me, anytime. If you can't get me, you can call Jim." Blair's eyes sought Jim's as he said that, and Jim nodded his assent. Blair turned back to Morag who refused to meet his gaze. But the anthropologist was nothing if not persistent. "I'm serious, Morag. If you need help, you call."

Slowly, reluctantly, Morag reached for the card. Staring at it briefly, she finally looked up, her glance taking in both men as they stood by the door. Jim braced himself as her gaze caught his, but the expression in her eyes was as aloof as it had ever been. He felt just a bit guilty at the relief he felt when she looked away. Staring at the card again, she nodded slowly.

"Okay, well, great. That's settled." Blair shrugged his pack over one shoulder and opened the door. "Let's go, Jim. See you tomorrow, Morag."

Their hostess just nodded, and stood there, unmoving but for the shadows in her eyes, as they let themselves out of the apartment and headed down the stairs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They drove the first few blocks towards the station in companionable silence. Jim worked on pushing Morag's eccentricities out of his mind by sheer force of will. Grad student or no, the woman was flat weird, that's all there was to it. The good news was Sandburg was already weird in his own way, so hopefully Jim didn't have to worry about Morag rubbing off on his roommate. Passing one hand across his face as if that could erase the strangeness of the scene in Morag's apartment, Jim turned to thoughts of the five unsolved cases sitting on his desk at the bullpen, only realizing a few moments later that Blair had asked him a question, the same question several times if the volume of this latest request was any indication.

"...don't mind me telling her about your hearing being heightened?"

"Hunh?" Jim shook his head as the individual noises became words in his thoughts. "Oh, no. You didn't tell her the whole thing did you?"

Blair shook his head, hands waving in front of him to emphasize his denial.

"No way, man. I didn't want to tell her anything, but she wouldn't settle down enough to let me work with her on the dial. I don't know, maybe she was still on edge from last night, but I could hardly get her to sit still when I first got there. She kept apologizing for being so much trouble. Funny thing is, I got the distinct impression she doesn't really remember what happened."

"She might not. Those sensory spike headaches can be pretty fierce."

Blair was suddenly all business.

"Do you experience any memory loss with your migraines, Jim?"

"Well, if I do, I don't remember," Jim drawled.

Blair thought that over, nodding his head once and smiling.

"Well, yeah, I guess not." His smile grew, and he chuckled. "Well, anyway, once I told her you had trouble with your hearing and the dials worked to control it, I finally got her to settle down and try it. She wasn't as quick a study as you were, but I think she got enough of it to help her out. The rest is just a matter of practice on her part." Sandburg shifted in his seat, obviously uncertain as to Jim's reaction to whatever else he had to say. "I thought--if you didn't mind, that is--we might go out to the State Park or something this Saturday and see if we couldn't both work some more on this with her."

Jim thought about it for a moment or two. The thought didn't exactly thrill him, but if it made his roommate happy, and helped Morag out a bit...He shrugged.

"Yeah, maybe. It all depends on how things go with this new case."

"What new case?"

"The old folders new case. If we can find something to connect them, I might have to work on that this weekend."

"Okay. So, does this mean you’re finally gonna tell me what you think you saw?” Blair sounded aggrieved, and Jim shot a worried look at his roommate. The twinkle in the younger man’s blue eyes as they met his belied the petulant tone of voice.

"Maybe. If you behave yourself."

They rode in silence for the next few blocks, Jim good-naturedly ignoring the gloating grin that lit up Sandburg’s face. Traffic downtown was light, for whatever reason, but Jim didn't complain. So many people were fleeing the congestion in Seattle that Cascade was developing it's own traffic nightmare in turn. After the few minutes of silence, Blair turned to Jim.

"You want to tell me what else was going on there with Morag?"

Jim decided to play dumb. Big dumb lump of Neanderthal cop, just like he'd been accused of being on more than one occasion.

"What what was all about?"

Blair sighed.

"You know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean. You standing there telling Morag she could trust me and man, the vibes were so thick between you two *I* could almost see them--without Sentinel-vision to help. What was going on?"

Jim shrugged again.

"Maybe after the way you scared her last night I was just trying to reassure her that you were capable of helping her. You don't exactly look the part when it comes to expert help."

"Hey, man, I don't have to *look* the part, I am the part! Morag was just out-of-control because of the pain last night, that's all. You oughtta know how that goes."

Jim nodded. If that what Blair wanted to believe, then Jim was happy to let him. They were almost back at the station when Jim remembered his own question.

"Chief, what do you know about Morag's family? She have anybody nearby, siblings, nieces or nephews?"

Blair was shaking his head as Jim steered the truck through the parking garage.

"Nah, she's an only child. Her mom died when she was little, some sort of accident I think. Same place she got that scar on her face. Her dad died three or four years ago. That's where she got that awesome stereo set up. You know, when he built his house he had a room specially designed for that stereo, soundproofed and everything, just so he could listen to it as loud as he wanted and not bother anyone else?"

"It looked a little overpowering for her apartment," Jim agreed, parking the truck and reaching for the keys.

"Yeah, well, it's about all she got from her dad, the stereo and a little money. I guess his house and everything else went to some friend of his. Talk about a ripoff, I can't believe a man wouldn't just leave it all to his own flesh and blood. She was his only kid, for crying out loud."

Jim could believe it. Who knew what would come out of his own father's will when that time came? He pulled the keys out, but didn't get out of the truck just yet, his mind drifting between puzzles.

"Why do you ask, anyway?" Blair shifted in the seat so he faced Jim.

"The kid's table and chairs, the toys..." Jim shrugged. "It seemed a bit...out of place in her apartment. Out of character."

"Oh, that. Yeah, I asked her about it once, when I was in her other apartment, before she left. It's just stuff she's had since she was little. Keeps it around for sentimental reasons, and in case she ever has company with kids. That's all."

Oh. Jim fingered the keys for a minute. Really, there was nothing unusual about crumbs and stale cookies on a child's table, was there? Just because the owner of that table was a twenty-something--year-old grad student...Jim saw again the incarnation of Morag that had met him in that corner, the happier version with the impish eyes that had *winked* at him. On the other hand, she *had* winked at Simon and Blair last night, before her evening--and theirs--spiraled completely out of control. Maybe she just enjoyed messing with their minds. One thing was certain, she was more than passing strange. *That* could be written in stone. He suddenly realized Sandburg was still waiting for his answer.

"Somehow Morag doesn't strike me as a social butterfly," was the only thing Jim could come up with, unable to put his finger on why that little setup in the corner was bothering him so much. He shrugged and got out of the truck, pocketing the keys and letting other concerns take over his thoughts for now. Blair wasn't worried about any of this, so maybe Jim would just follow his roommate's lead--this once.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

_"Better by far you should forget and smile_

_than that you should remember and be sad."_

_\---Christina Rossetti_

 

 

Two hours later, Jim stared grimly back at the faces staring up at him from the briefing room table, trying and failing to find something, anything that might link these deaths together. Blair was at his side, holding out yet another piece of evidence. Fabric, this time, from a blue dress--blue with psychedelic birds of paradise printed onto it. Even faded with time, the garish colors had the potential to hurt his sensitive eyes. Elbows on the table, Jim sighed and pushed the scrap away, rubbing a hand over his face as he did so.

"This isn't getting us anywhere, Chief." At least nowhere but a headache the size of Cascade, pounding behind his temples right now. Jim closed his eyes, only half listening as Blair put the scrap of blood-soaked fabric back into it's brown envelope. He'd been wrong, and more than likely they were just chasing rabbit trails--not a serial murderer. Eyes closed, Jim rubbed his temples with both hands.

"Headache?" Blair enquired softly. Jim felt the displaced air as Blair sat in the seat next to him.

"Yeah, just a bit." Jim mentally searched for the dials, toned down the pain first and his sense of smell second. There, that helped. Finally he opened his eyes, and met Blair's gaze. The blue eyes were bleak, and Jim's concern shifted immediately from his own needs to his roommate's. "You okay?"

Blair shifted in his seat, his gaze flicking away from Jim to the photos on the table in front of them.

"Yeah. It's just... you know... just hard to believe anyone could be so...brutal."

Jim nodded. Even after three years on the force man's inhumanity to man still managed to twist Blair's soul. Most cops would have been fairly numb to it by now, out of necessity if nothing else. Jim was. Not that he and his fellow detectives didn't care, they had just learned how to care--enough to get the job done, but not enough to make himself crazy when he couldn't go back and erase the tales told in the eyes of the victims. What amazed him was the fact that in spite the darkness he'd walked through with Jim, Blair had yet to get cynical or hard. Oh, he was a bit more streetwise, a little less naive, but the grad student hadn't lost that openness, the zest for life that defined him in so many ways, that had opened up one James Ellison, former covert ops, former Ranger, opened him up like the proverbial can of worms and proceeded to infuse that same zest for life into him--some of it anyway. No one could have as much _joie de vivre_ as Blair did, no one. There was only one to a planet on that order, or at least so Jim and Simon hoped.

"I'm sorry you have to see all this," he offered, and Sandburg gave him a weak smile. Jim smiled in return, and batted the other man lightly on the head.

Truth was, he wasn't sorry, not really. They needed Sandburg on this--Jim did, anyway, if he was going to be able to pull the rabbit out of the hat that everyone seemed to expect from him. Jim was a good detective, skilled at looking at the evidence and making connections even before his Sentinel senses came online, bringing Sandburg into his life. If the connection *was* there, if the thread that would unravel this knot and pull it all straight so they could see the guy who did it, if anything was there in the musty evidence boxes to be felt or smelled or tasted he would find it. On the other hand, Jim had come to rely on the fact that if the connection had to be intuited or conjured out of thin air, Sandburg was the one who could be counted on to do so. Simon knew that too; it was part of the reason why the by-the-book Captain suffered the long-haired grad student to stay. It was the anthropologist himself who generally seemed to be a little clueless as to his own abilities, his own contributions to the mix.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Jim carefully lifted the photos and rearranged them. Blair watched silently as he did so, but Jim knew better. He could almost hear the wheels spinning in that incredible brain skulking behind that baby face.

"Jim?" When Jim looked at him, Blair sat up straight, pushing his glasses up on his nose and looking suddenly professorial. "I want you to tell me about the cases again, okay? Just like you did when we first got in here. I'm going to open *all* the evidence bags at the same time, leave them open while you talk. As you talk, I want you to just sort of subconsciously let your senses go. Let the instincts work for you in this, see if you can find what's in all of them that way, instead of just one at a time."

Blair picked up the photos Jim had rearranged, and, standing, moved around the table, opening each envelope again and dumping the contents out into its tray. He made sure the various smaller bags were open, then placed the victim's photo in front of the corresponding tray, facing Jim.

"Okay, start talking. Close your eyes for now, though." At Jim's disgusted look, Blair remonstrated, "Just humor me for a minute, okay? I want to concentrate on your sense of smell."

Jim grimaced, but they both knew better than to take him seriously. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back in his chair, tried to relax. Mentally dialing up his sense of smell again, one hand still half covering his face, he began to talk.

"We've got five murders in a span of 15 years. All prostitutes, approximate ages 28 - 30, all about 5 foot, 7 - 10 inches tall, with long dark hair. Three were identified, two Jane Does. Time of death and method of death varies from injuries received to one Jane Doe whose throat was slashed. The one who was found alive was not able to identify her attacker before she died, except as a very generic Caucasian male, aged anywhere from mid-thirties to fifty something, with dark hair and indeterminate eyes. Two were evidently paid for their services before they died, and the others weren't, but all were beat to a bloody pulp afterwards."

"Okay, so what other connections are there? Other than their general body type?" Blair's voice had moved, came now from behind Jim, soft and almost hypnotic.

"There wasn't one. Not until I sorted them by date."

"And what did you find?"

"They were all murdered on March 29th, various years, the most recent being 1994, the earliest 1979, somewhere within the city limits of Cascade." And today was March 25th. Would they find another body this year?

"All of them died on March 29th, though?"

"All but the one in 1979, and that one took place on March 30, two days after a freak spring ice storm paralyzed Cascade and shut the entire city down for 48 hours."

"Okay, and the theory is you've got someone who's marking an anniversary--some sort of sick anniversary."

Jim nodded, keeping his eyes closed. Suddenly, something caught his attention, and he sniffed, taking a deep breath.

"Just flow with it, Jim, don't try to fight it, just flow with it. Let it come to you, let it come to you." Sandburg's reassuring prattle faded as Jim held up one hand, sitting up straight in his seat. Taking another deep breath, he checked carefully. Yes, the faint scent was coming from all five of the trays. Individually, there wasn't enough there for him to pick it up. Collectively, it was just enough.

"Okay, you got it?"

"Yeah..." Jim took another deep breath, trying to draw enough of the elusive molecules in to identify them...

And sneezed. Several times. Loudly.

"Oh, god..." Blindly, he lurched out of his chair and turned away from the table, his hands going to his suddenly out of control nose.

"Find the dial, Jim, find the dial and turn it down..." Sandburg's soft voice was barely audible over Jim's sneezing and gasping. At the same time, Jim found a tissue in his hand from somewhere. Sandburg again, no doubt. Focusing on his Guide's voice, he was finally able to get the sneezing under control. Blowing his nose and wiping at his eyes, he aimed the mangled tissue in the general direction of the wastebasket. He started to take another deep breath but stopped himself in time. Sandburg's hand was on his arm.

"You okay, Jim?"

"Yeah, I think so. Just got a bigger whiff than I intended."

"Whiff of what?"

"Sage." Blair's eyes grew round, and he looked over his shoulder at the table.

"From that?"

"From all of them, Chief. It's in all of the folders. There's something else too, but I couldn't get past the sage to identify it." Jim eyed the table warily, grabbing another tissue and blowing his nose again before taking his seat. Blair leaned beside him, one hand on the back of Jim's chair and one hand on the table.

"You sure you want to try this again?" Blair asked dubiously.

"Yeah, now that I know about it it's faint enough I should be able to control my reaction and still find out what else is there."

"Okay, but if you start to lose it again--"

"I'll be careful, Mom."

Sandburg grinned and stood up.

"Yeah, see that you are."

Jim closed his eyes and concentrated again, mentally sifting and sorting the scents coming out of the bags again. There, mingled with the sage--which he quickly suppressed--were the other scents...he took deep, careful breaths this time, several of them, before opening his eyes and finding Sandburg's concerned gaze about three inches from his own.

"Sandburg, do you mind?" Jim reached for another tissue and blew his nose again as Blair backed off, grinning.

"Got it?"

"Yeah, there are at least two more, probably three, but the third one is pretty faint." Sandburg snorted. Faint for Jim was nonexistent for the rest of the population. Jim ignored him. "They're all familiar though, they all smell like... kitchens. Kitchens and cooking."

Sandburg stood up straight now, pacing excitedly around the room.

"Herbs?" At Jim's nod, he continued, "So, maybe our guy's a cook? A chef, or something?" He turned and paced back toward Jim. "We can take you to the store tonight, the one over on Walnut Road, with the big bulk department." Jim groaned. He hated that store, with its plethora of smells from that same bulk department. Sneezing fits plagued him for hours after shopping there. Blair ignored him, still planning his trip. Jim let him run on for a minute, then held up one hand.

"I've got a better idea." He reached for one of the trays, poked a long finger at a few minute specks that littered the green fabric there. "Let's send this dust down to forensics for analysis. We'll need it for the DA's office anyway, if we can make a case out of this. And save my nose in the process."

"Well, sure, Jim, but it would be faster to just go--"

"Sandburg, my sinuses have had about all they can take right now. Maybe tomorrow, if we don't find anything else to check out."

"Well, okay." His roommate obviously didn't like the idea, but Jim wasn't giving ground. His sinuses really had had all they could take for one day; the headache he'd controlled earlier was threatening again. He closed his eyes, seeking the pain dial once more, ignoring Sandburg as the anthropologist resumed his pacing.

"Okay, so you've got three, possibly four scents, mingled together, all some sort of kitchen herb, the kind that you cook with? Did you pick up anything else?"

Jim opened his mouth to say 'no,' but suddenly he saw one more thing in his mind's eye. Opening his eyes, he reached for the photos, pulling them all to him and arranging them side by side on the table. His memory was correct, his Sentinel eyesight had indeed picked something else up in all the photos, he'd just missed it earlier--trying too hard probably. He pointed to each bruised and battered face in turn. "See that mark there?" Blair leaned over his shoulder, squinting.

"Um, no. But I'll take your word for it."

"It's there, on each woman's face, on the right side. Like she was backhanded by a man wearing a ring. A rather large ring."

"Wow! Could you identify the ring if you saw it?"

Jim stared at the photos a minute, before shaking his head.

"No, there's too much swelling and stuff to make out any identifying marks. If this was recent, if I could look at it in the flesh, then maybe I could make something out, but there's no way from these photos."

"Okay, well, hey, why don't we take a break, Jim? Give your sinuses a rest, let the air clear in here. I could use a cup of coffee or something."

"Yeah, sure." Jim dragged his six foot frame out of the chair, stretching and flexing his stiff muscles. "Simon wanted me to let him know if we found anything, anyway."

"You want something from the break room?" Blair paused, one hand on the briefing room door.

"Just some water."

"Okay, back in two."

Jim followed Sandburg out into the bullpen, slowing down to verify Simon's office door was closed as his partner headed on into the hall toward the break room. A quick check with Sentinel ears revealed Simon in the midst of a rather one-sided, rather contentious conversation with the DA. Okay, on second thought he'd check his e-mail instead. Jim made a beeline for his desk. Two of the women's bodies had been found close enough to the city limits he'd decided to ask if any of several nearby towns had similar unsolved cases. It only took a moment to download his mail, and he rapidly skimmed and deleted the negative answers to his morning's query.

Still staring at the last message on his screen, Jim barely acknowledged the chorus of greetings that followed Sandburg's reentry into the bull pen with two bottles of water. Blair stopped briefly to chat with several of the detectives, and then made a longer stop to talk with Simon's secretary, Rhonda. Jim finally looked up when Brown walked over, Blair not far behind, the anthropologist stepping around the dark-skinned detective to hold a bottle of water out to his friend.

"Hey, Jim, Sandburg." Brown held the ubiquitous manilla folders in one hand. "Here's more of those old files for you. Sorry I didn't get them to you earlier. I think the ones Rafe found fit your profile on both counts. I came up with one. It didn't fit your age criteria, and the victim lived, but everything else fit--even the date. It's almost scary."

A victim who had lived? This might be the break they needed. Jim nodded his thanks, busy opening his water bottle, so Blair set his own open bottle on the corner of Jim's desk and reached for the folders Henri held out.

"Thanks, H," Sandburg said.

"No problem, man, but I think maybe you should arrest the parents on this last one."

"Why?" Water bottle suspended a few inches from his face, it took Jim a couple of seconds to realize Henri was joking. Blair was a little quicker on the uptake, rolling his eyes at his less observant roommate. Jim ignored him; he could hear the title of Sandburg's lecture tonight already: Humor: Applications and Uses Of in Keeping Police Officers Sane. Find the funny and focus on it, the small detail you could laugh about and handle to keep the larger details at bay, the details you couldn't deal with. Like all these damn autopsy photos of beaten and broken women. Did he mention that they were all dead? Jim closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Sorry, H." He took a long drink from the water bottle, and then set it on the desk.

The bald detective shrugged and grinned.

"'S'okay, Ellison. Man, the photos in these are enough to set anyone on edge. This is one sick bastard. Looks like he'll get what's coming to him now." Jim almost sighed at the implicit faith in his fellow detective's words. He wasn't sure himself that he'd be able to do anything, even if the murders were linked. No one else seemed to share his doubts though. Henri let Blair take the folders, and started to leave.

"Hey," Blair said as Brown headed back to his own desk. "You didn't answer Jim's question. Why should we arrest the parents?"

This time Henri's smile lit up his face and a good portion of the bullpen.

"Because they named the poor little girl Morag Blanche. It oughtta be a crime to saddle someone with two names that ba--Hairboy? You okay?"

On his feet instantly, Jim tried to take the folders before Blair could find it, before he opened that one folder and saw the photos Jim knew would be there. He should have known better. The anthropologist yanked the folders away from his Sentinel, turning his back and locating the one labeled "Gilbertson, Morag B." before Jim could get another grip on them. Finding himself holding the files labeled with unfamiliar names, Jim dropped them on the floor. One step and he was at Blair's side just as the grad student opened Morag's folder and found the photos.

"Shit," they said, in unison.

The first picture had to be Morag's school photo for the year. Smiling sweetly at the camera, the grey eyes were wide, alive--shadowed but not "not-alive" like they were in the adult Morag. The photo beside and behind it was the same face, bruised and battered, and--Sentinel sight quickly confirmed--the same cut from the same ring on her right cheek. But the eyes--the eyes were no longer alive, not anymore. Ashes, dead gray ashes, that's what they were. His stomach twisted and Jim looked away, up, anywhere but at those dead, dead eyes.

Wide-eyed, his grin gone, Henri was staring at them both and their little scuffle over the folder had caught the attention of the other members of Major Crimes. In the background a door opened.

Jim turned his attention back to the folder and his roommate. He'd called it correctly; the eye shadow and lipstick Morag wore now were the same color as her own bruised skin in the police photos. He sighed. Some days it just didn't pay to be right. Neither man looked up as Simon joined them.

"Problem, gentlemen?"

Blair ignored the Captain, one hand trembling as he traced the information on the page, his lips moving as he read but no sound coming out.

Jim closed his own eyes as he followed Blair's finger. Morag had only been sixteen, still living at home with her dad, an honor student at Cascade High. If this was the same guy their man had broken his MO, and majorly. Why? Well, that didn't matter, not anymore. Maybe her case didn't fit Jim's stupid little profile, but he didn't care. It was his case now, his and Sandburg's. This bastard they would bring down, profile or no. Jaw clenching, he looked at Simon.

"Blair knows the victim. So do I."

There was a chorus of muttered expletives at that.

"I'm sorry, Blair, if I had known..." Blair waved off Henri's apology.

"Man, it's not your fault, not your fault at all..." he muttered, turning away as he leafed further through the file.

Jim heard Simon's teeth clench, looked at the taller man.

"Knows? She wasn't murdered?"

"No, actually, you met her last night."

Simon's eyes widened at that piece of information, and he swore softly under his breath, his eyes flicking to where Blair stood, still thumbing through the file.

"Take him out of here for a few minutes."

"Aw, SHIT, man, SHIT! This *really* SUCKS!"

The folder flew across the room, papers and photos fluttering down to the floor in its wake. Jim reached for Blair's arm, but the long-haired observer jerked away from him. Not meeting anyone's gaze, Blair spun around, his back to them all and his hands up in the air.

"I need some air, man, I gotta get some air."

And the anthropologist was gone. Jim rubbed one hand over his face again, then bent to pick up the files he had dropped. Probably better if he gave Blair a moment or two to vent before he followed him. Dark hands stopped him as Simon loomed over him.

"I'll get this; you go on."

Jim nodded, retrieving the two folders anyway, one of them half under the desk. Henri was gathering up the other file--Morag's file, Jim corrected mentally--the one that flew across the room, Rafe helping him put the pieces back together before they approached Jim. Simon intercepted the two men, taking Morag's file, adding it to the two he'd just taken from Jim.

"Go on, get outta here," he said, setting the folders on top of Jim's desk.

Jim met Simon's troubled gaze and nodded briefly, before grabbing Blair's coat from his desk and heading out in search of his partner.


	6. Chapter 6

_"After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"_

_\--- T.S. Eliot_

 

Blair was in the alley behind the precinct, kicking an empty soda can mercilessly against the wall.

"You keep that up and it won't be recyclable." Arms crossed, Jim leaned casually on the brick building.

Blair gave the can one last vicious kick, then his shoulders slumped and he shivered. Jim handed him his jacket.

"Kind of cold out here, isn't it?" The cold always bothered the smaller man more. Jim just tuned the cold out, he never noticed it until Sandburg came along. Blair took the jacket automatically. Jim opened his mouth to threaten to put Blair in it himself, but his Guide chose that moment to slide his arms into the coat and swing it on over his head. Jim waited, still leaning against the wall.

Hands limp at his sides, Blair stared at the bricks before him. One hand lifted to run through his hair, then he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if addressing his words to the sky instead of his partner.

"Man, I never knew, I never fucking knew or I never would have, I *never* would have--" Sandburg's hand went out, pleading with each denial that grated from his throat. "God, Jim, what did I do?"

Jim shifted, stood up straight. There wasn't a lot he could say, nothing that would make this grief disappear, but he could set the kid straight on one thing at least.

"Chief, you didn't do anything wrong. You didn't know. And, unlike the SOB that raped her, you took "No" for an answer."

Blair's head came down at that, staring at Jim in wide-eyed disbelief before rejecting the proffered comfort. He turned away, his hand cutting the air in time with his denial.

"No way, man, ignorance is no excuse, none! I'm supposed to be her friend, man, her friend. Instead I'm just... Oh, shit, no wonder she freaked, no wonder, and I was *so* damn clueless I just wrote her off as frigid or something and went on with my life--" Hands gesticulating wildly, Blair found the pop can again, and his tantrum ended with a small wad of wrinkled aluminum under his foot. "Shit!" he exploded, and the pop can rebounded off the brick wall to clatter forlornly down the alley for a few seconds until it clanged to a stop against the dumpster.

"Chief, that is *exactly* what she wanted." The debris in the alley crunched under Jim's feet as he stepped closer to his Guide, and he quickly squelched his sense of smell as it was assaulted by the fetid odor from the dumpster. Sandburg had to accept this, he had to, or he'd be useless on the case. "You did * exactly* what she wanted you to. Look, I did the same thing: I only saw what she wanted me to see and didn't look any closer."

Blair swung around to his friend, a hand out now inquiringly and indefinable emotion sparking deep in his eyes.

"Last night you said there was more to Morag than met the eye, and then today you were telling her she could trust me. Is this why?" At Jim's quiet nod, the emotion in Blair's eyes flared: anger, pure and bright, directed straight at his partner. The larger man let it ride, accepting the misdirected fury, wishing there was a cure for the grief that fed it. Hands on his hips, chin jutting forward, Blair stepped toward Jim. His voice was quiet now, almost lethal in its intensity. "Okay, so, like when did you figure this out, and was there sometime in the near future you were planning on giving me a clue?"

"Don't lose your cool, Chief. I didn't suspect anything until last night, all right? And, I never guessed it was anything like this...nothing this bad." Jim rubbed his face. Not this bad at all. Tucking his hands in his jeans pockets, he offered, "Last night? When I was holding her, trying to keep her from clawing your eyes out, it took everything she had to stand still. I could literally feel her flesh crawling where I touched her. At first I thought it was because of her being hypersensitive in touch, but after you told me what happened between the two of you, I don't know." Jim shrugged, his conclusion sounding lame all of a sudden. "It all just sort of fell together."

Blair closed his eyes, obviously considering Jim's words. His fury abated almost as quickly as it had risen, and he shifted so he faced away from Jim, staring down the alley, shoulders slumped and crossing his arms against his chest.

"Damn. I'm supposed to be the fucking observer here and I missed it. Missed it completely." His voice faded to a whisper, the words almost inaudible in the sudden growl of a passing truck. But the Sentinel heard it, and he was beside his friend in a moment, one hand on Blair's shoulder. His voice was soft, gentle, but firm too, firm enough to cut through the grief and guilt that blanketed the younger man.

"Blair, you didn't see it because she didn't want you to. It's not your fault. And this, this..." he didn't know how to say it without offending Blair, but the soft huff of breath from his partner said Blair understood: This temper tantrum. This little hissy fit. Whatever it was, Blair understood. Jim swallowed a smile, and continued, "This isn't getting us anywhere. It won't change what happened to Morag."

Throwing his head back, Blair laughed once, bitterly.

Hand still on his friend's shoulder, Jim sighed. "Look, Chief, I wish--"

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride." The bitterness remained, flowing through the younger man's voice, and not for the first time Jim silently cursed the wounds his line of work inflicted on his less-hardened partner.

"Chief..." Jim tightened his grip, but Blair shrugged him off, again taking a step away from the detective.

"You know, Jim, Naomi always said that when I complained about something, anything. Said that was the way the world was sometimes, and it was best just not to think about it, do what you could, if you could, but just go on after that. Detach with love, from all of it, good and bad." Eyes closing, Blair shook his head, whether at the memory of his mother's advice or today's darkness Jim wasn't sure. He whispered it again. "If wishes were horses...shit, I'd have a whole herd here today if that was true." Swallowing convulsively then, he clenched a fist and swung it toward the wall as he wailed, "God, Jim I did *not* know, I didn't know!"

Jim grabbed the smaller man's fist before it hit the wall, holding it in his own grip and waiting until Blair looked at him to answer.

"I know that, Chief, and I honestly think Morag does too." He caught and held Blair's gaze with his own, pouring all the intensity of his conviction into both his own eyes and his words. "You have *nothing* to feel guilty about. Okay?"

Jim waited a long moment, holding Blair's fist in his own until the younger man tugged it free, nodding slowly. When the anthropologist didn't say anything else, just looked down at his shoes, Jim cleared his throat.

"We can do one thing for her."

Blair met Jim's gaze then, and the detective saw his own resolve mirrored there. It was all they had to offer Morag, the slim hope that when all these cases were laid side by side he and Blair could work their magic and come up with more than just a profile, that they could come up with a person, a name--someone to nail for this, for what had been done to her and at least half a dozen other women.

"We can take the son of a bitch that did it to her down." Blair said it for him, in a hard, heavy voice Jim had rarely heard from the police observer.

The Sentinel nodded. Blair looked at Jim, then back at the sky. Closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, cleansing breaths, Jim knew, and he almost smiled as he watched his roommate mentally and emotionally center himself. Caught himself before the dark blue eyes opened, meeting his in a cold stare.

"All right then, let's go."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jim studied one half of Winnie the Pooh's ruined face gazing back at him from the wadded-up nightshirt before glancing at his partner.

"You okay, Chief?"

Ashen-faced, Blair hesitantly reached for the torn and stained material, gently smoothing it between his thumb and fingers until he encountered a darker, stiffer stain. His hand jerked back as if burned, and both men stared silently at the bear's ragged visage, leering now from the turquoise rag in between splotches of blood and other bodily fluids that neither one of them really wanted to identify.

"You don't have to be here. I can get Brown--"

"No." Blair's denial was firm. He took a deep breath, then his eyes met Jim's. "I can do this. I'll be fine. It's just..." His voice trailed away, and he couldn't meet Jim's gaze anymore. The detective put one hand on Sandburg's shoulder.

"I know," he answered quietly, then his hand dropped away, and he reached for the tray, intending to release the rest of the evidence of Morag's nightmare from its sealed oblivion. Blair's hand stopped his.

"Wait, close your eyes and see if you smell it first."

"Okay."

Eyes closed, Jim waited while Blair opened the envelopes. That done, it only took a second to find his answer, two to be certain. The scents were there, faint to be sure, but exactly as in all the other evidence trays, the five from before, and now the three new trays filled with items Jim had fetched up from downstairs just a couple of hours ago. Normally Blair would have saved his Sentinel the aggravation of a trip to the dusty evidence storage room, but not this time. This time Sandburg had acquiesced all too easily when Jim suggested he return to Major Crimes' briefing room while the detective retrieved the available evidence.

There, staring at the three envelopes before he inked his name on the register, staring hardest at the one lettered bluntly with Morag's last name and initials, Jim had briefly considered not bringing up that particular envelope. But in the end he knew it had to be done. If this was the same guy, Morag was the best chance they had yet of catching him. The detective had scrawled his name, accepting responsibility for it all, and carried the evidence up to where Blair was waiting, his unnatural silence filling the room. By mutual, unspoken consent they'd waited until last to open Morag's envelope.

Now Jim took a third second to be absolutely certain the smells of sage and other herbs were coming from that particular tray, and then his eyes opened, meeting Sandburg's gaze. The Sentinel nodded.

"It's there. Stronger even than the last ones."

"Maybe because it's more recent," Blair muttered, before reaching out to sort through the evidence. There wasn't much. In Morag's tray there were the ruined nightdress, the herbal residue of leaves and dust, and her panties, blue and white, once-jaunty stripes sobered now with stains and blotches. Her father'd found those on the floor by the door, when he'd finally found his daughter in the middle of the night. Sandburg shoved the tray forcefully aside and Jim caught it just before it shot off the table and onto the floor. Sliding it back a safe distance away from the edge, Jim dropped into the seat next to his partner.

They sat in silence for a moment, Blair's face buried in his hands and his hair cascading over all of it. Jim leaned back in his chair, hands dangling loosely in his lap. After a moment, the detective realized Blair was talking, saying something, probably something important, but as Jim stared at the eight trays sitting in silent accusation on the table in front of them, the familiar voice was gradually overwhelmed and then shut out completely by his own rising doubts. Just exactly when had this charge been given to him, laid at his feet? How had it been decided that the responsibility was his to find and contain the demon from Morag's past? He'd been in Peru when she was attacked, dealing with his own demons, his own nightmares. What could he do now?

Even more, how was he to accomplish this goal? What lay before him was frail evidence, indeed, with which to catch a murderer and a rapist after so many years. Just so many different shreds of cloth, bound with both innocence and terror and sprinkled with a fragrant ash of herbs and hope. And the flowers. Morag alone received flowers from her attacker, the once bright nosegay now just another fragile piece of the puzzle, withered pansies and rosebuds, ivoried with age and perfumed with mildew, all wound up in a purple ribbon. The puzzle pieces danced before Jim, tantalizing and teasing him, refusing to slide into a recognizable pattern even as they refused to deny their connectedness, the details he'd read in Morag's folder suddenly flashing and winding through and over the others.

An early riser who laid himself down to sleep religiously at 10:30 p.m., John Gilbertson had been irritated when he woke up at 3 a.m. March 30, 1988 to the mumble of late night TV in the family room downstairs. Studying the hand-drawn layout of the house in the case file, Jim wondered if Morag didn't get her preternatural hearing from her father; the family room was a long ways from the master suite her father inhabited. His daughter not asleep in her room, John Gilbertson headed downstairs to turn off the TV and grouch at his insomniac child. The only sign of Morag was most of a bowl of cold cereal spilled across the couch, and he'd grumbled about that too, cleaning up the spill with military precision and expecting Morag to pop out of the bathroom any minute. When she didn't turn up, he checked the bathroom, and then her room again. Not finding her, he wasn't worried, not yet, because Morag liked to listen to music too, and in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep she'd go downstairs in the basement and listen to his stereo.

Jim wondered briefly if Morag's midnight attacks of insomnia were frequent; her father's acceptance of her late night musical habits seemed odd to him. Still, Jim knew better than to base his judgement of other people's parenting on his own sterile upbringing. Still irritated because she'd left the TV on, Morag's father headed for the basement and his stereo room, noticing along the way that the front door was open. Feeling the first tingling of worry, he ran down the stairs, tripping over Morag's robe halfway down. Sprawled across the middle landing, he saw a small bundle of flowers at the bottom of the steps, a bouquet he knew hadn't been there before he went upstairs for the night, and John fell down the rest of the stairs, trying to reach his daughter before it was too late. The door to his stereo room was locked, and in the dark he wasted precious seconds finding the spare key he'd hung in the broom closet. Once he'd gotten the door open, then and only then had his nightmare begun in earnest.

The transcript of Gilbertson's frantic call to 911 was in the file, as were the many interviews Cascade P.D. had had with him, trying to find out who his daughter knew well enough to let in the house in the middle of the night, who would know about the presence of the soundproofed stereo room in the basement. Hell, Morag's father himself had been the prime suspect, until a blood test on the tissue residue beneath his daughter's fingernails had revealed a different blood type than his own for her attacker. Angrily, Gilbertson had accused the police of trying to railroad him instead of finding the real rapist. The brutal assault in one of Cascade's finest neighborhoods had sent the city into a brief panic, but as the weeks passed and no one else was attacked, the furor slowly died down. And Morag...poor Morag.

She had fought her assailant, that much was certain, but the soundproofing in her father's stereo room was everything he'd paid for and more. No one could have heard her screams in there, perhaps not even a Sentinel. And she was punished for her struggle, though not fatally like the other women: there was little doubt that their man had never intended to kill Morag. Broken and bruised, she'd spent several nights in the hospital, but the physical wounds were the least of her injuries.

Morag was catatonic when her father finally knelt by her side, by official police estimate some three hours after her nightmare had ended. Eyes wide open, yet blinking and breathing at a rate far below normal, Morag had lain unresponsive in her hospital bed through three transfers, one from ICU to the psychiatric wing of Cascade General, and then another a week later to a private hospital north of town. Three long weeks passed, and when she finally reconnected to the outside world the only interview her father allowed with the police proved that Morag had dealt with the attack in her own way: she had forgotten about it. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder with Severe Dissociation was the official diagnosis, and her father seemed more than willing to go along with her amnesia. Jim could hardly fault her; he'd done the same thing himself--*was* doing it, if the fact he still had almost no recollection of his time in Peru was any indication. In such cases who could truly judge who was sane versus insane? Sanity was a relative term, after all, and who was to say what it truly was when all you wanted to do was survive from day to day?

Almost as soon as she was released from the hospital, her father packed Morag off to live with an unspecified relative in another state, warning Cascade's finest that if, in the future, anyone should bother his daughter about the recent events they'd be facing a lawsuit. Detective Po insisted to the end that Gilbertson was withholding information crucial to the case, but no one could ever confirm what that information might be. Reluctantly, with no leads and no witness, the case had been shunted aside, landing finally in the dusty heap with the rest of the unsolved cases in the area. Until this week, that is, and the efforts of one Police Observer/grad student/Guide and his Sentinel. The Sentinel of the Great City, trying now to reach back into the past and right wrongs done before his time. The pattern was there, in the evidence, the answers were there, as surely as he *was* the Sentinel of the City, but even as he reached for them the pieces danced away, remaining seductively just beyond his ken, Morag's living nightmare flashing counterpoint to the murdered prostitutes.

"...im, come back. Jim, hey man, you're lost here, come on, focus on my voice and come on back, man. Jim, come on, I'm here, just listen to my voice, man, focus on me. It's getting kind of late, you know, and I'd sure be happier if we could go get some supper or something, okay? Come on back, Jim--"

With a deep intake of air, Jim suddenly became aware of Blair's hands rubbing his shoulders, Blair's voice floating in behind him over the silence in which he'd been cloaked. Reaching up to grab the anthropologist's wrist, Jim rubbed the other hand over his face. Man, how long had he been zoned? Pulling his arm free, Blair sat on his heels beside him as Jim slumped forward, head in his hands and absently noting the displaced air as the door to the briefing room opened silently. His Guide didn't notice, still concentrating on making sure his charge was reconnected with the world around them. The smell of Simon's cigars quickly overwhelmed the subtler scents on which Jim had zoned.

Kicking the briefing room door closed behind him, Simon asked, "Find anything, Watson?"

"Hunh?" Still at Jim's side, Blair fell backwards on his butt as Simon's voice and the door boomed simultaneously. Jim sneezed, loudly.

"Man, you should know better than to sneak up on someone like that!" Sprawled on the floor, Sandburg stared disgustedly at the Captain. Simon glared right back, but somehow, even with his height advantage his ire didn't seem to have any impact at all on the smaller man.

Captain Banks removed his cigar from his mouth with the hand that wasn't holding anything.

"Sandburg, I opened the door, came in and closed it. If that's what you call sneaking--"

Scrambling to his feet, Blair shook his head at Simon. He knelt beside Jim, who sat, still slumped forward, elbows on his knees and both hands rubbing at his temples. The detective sneezed again, then went back to rubbing his head.

"Jim? You okay, man?"

Belatedly, Simon realized he had interrupted something. "Is there a problem?" he inquired in that voice which meant there better not be a problem and if there was all parties concerned better damn well get it taken care of before this particular police Captain had to lift one finger to deal with it.

Still sitting slack in his chair, Jim shook his head, biting back another sneeze before answering. Blair had already found the tissue box and was holding it out to him.

"I just zoned for a minute, that's all." He grabbed a tissue, and gave in to the sneeze.

"A *minute?*" Sandburg squeaked. "Man, Jim, you were, like, gone. Completely zoned for at least ten minutes, man. I was about to call Simon and see if we couldn't get him and Henri to drop you out a window or something to wake you up."

Jim blew his nose, eyeing Sandburg before standing, one hand going to his back as he stretched. He must have zoned for a while, if he was this stiff.

"If I may interrupt?" Simon's deadly polite voice cut off whatever rejoinder Jim was framing. When he was certain he had both men's attention, Banks waved the folders he still held in one hand at them. "These came in today. Rafe found two of them when he did the computer search you asked for. The other five were faxed in from Skagit County Sheriff's office, Similk Beach P.D., La Conner P.D., and Bayview P.D., in that order."

Blair did the math faster than Jim, but Jim was the one who actually reached for the folders.

"Seven? You've got seven more?" The anthropologist stared in horror at the folders Jim was leafing through.

Simon nodded grimly, his cigar returning to be clenched between even white teeth.

"Yeah. All the same MO. Date, physical characteristics, woman winds up dead. One victim wasn't a prostitute, she was a waitress at a truck stop in Woodinville. But, her body turned up in Skagit county, March 30, 1994."

Damn. Damn and double damn. That made fourteen murdered women, and one raped and brutalized teenager. Quickly, he checked the dates. Now the most recent murder was 1997. Which meant that unless he moved fast chances were good there'd be another body found March 30. Shutting his eyes Jim closed the folders, suddenly weary beyond belief. Blair's hand on his elbow brought him out of his momentary stupor, and he found Simon and his Guide both staring at him.

"Jim, man, you're beat--"

"Go home, Jim, and get some rest." Simon's bass command cut across Blair's softer voice, and the grad student shot him a look of gratitude. The tall Captain ignored it, his voice sympathetic as he addressed his next comments to the detective. "I called the various departments and they're all sending the available evidence Fed Ex. Won't be here until tomorrow morning anyway, and it's getting late. You might as well get outta here for now."

"All right." Jim dropped the folders on the table, then stretched. Blair moved to put the evidence away, but Simon waved him off. Jim knew Sandburg's own exhaustion was just as obvious to the dark-skinned chief of Major Crimes.

"Leave it, Sandburg. I'll have Rafe seal all this stuff up for you. Go on, get outta here, both of you."

"Yeah, well, okay, then. Jim?"

Jim had to smile as Sandburg went into what could only be described as sheep dog mode, except in place of a flock this Guide had one large and very weary Sentinel to deal with. It was a toss up as to which would have been more difficult a task on any given day. Allowing himself to be herded out the door into the bullpen, Jim snagged his coat from the back of his desk chair as Blair retrieved his own jacket and backpack. Waving a hand in vague answer to the various farewells that floated their way from the few remaining denizens of the bull pen, he let his Guide shepherd him out door and on the way home.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

_"'It's a poor sort of memory that works only backwards...."_

 

_\--- Lewis Carroll_

 

 

An hour later Blair blasted out of the bathroom, attired in clean sweats and toweling his curls dry. Jim knew the grad student had showered just that morning, but he also understood the need to be clean, to wash the outer shell even when you couldn't remove the inner dirt. Finding his own peace in the simple household chore of cooking, Jim stirred the white sauce quietly as Blair hung his towel and for once remembered the hamper, not the bathroom floor, was the proper place for dirty clothes. Detouring to grab a beer from the fridge and open it before finally coming to a stop beside the older man, Blair didn't notice the brown, labeled bottles Jim had carefully lined up on the back of the island.

"Whoa, that smells good! What is it?" Blair lifted the lid off the large kettle to reveal a goodly amount of pasta rolling in the boiling water.

"Noodles Romanoff or Alfredo, depending on how much Parmesan cheese you left after the last time you made lasagna."

"Hey, there's plenty, it's copacetic, man, it's copacetic! There's still salad stuff, isn't there?"

Jim nodded, and Blair busied himself putting a salad together. It wasn't until later, when dinner was actually being served, Sandburg holding the plates as Jim ladled out the noodles and sauce, that the small jars finally registered with his roommate.

"Hey, what are--"

"Sandburg! Watch out!" Both men grabbed at the same time and their combined efforts somehow had the right effect, preventing the noodles from sliding off the tilting plate to the floor.

"I hope you know that would have been your plate," Jim growled, taking the remaining plate and dishing up a rather large serving of pasta.

"Yeah, well, whatever, man, it's all fine now." Sandburg strode over to the table and set his plate down. Jim left his plate on the island, digging in the refrigerator for his own beer. Closing the door and turning to retrieve his plate, he found Sandburg examining the small bottles as if the red lettering on each label was some sort of hieroglyphic message.

"What are these, then?"

"Leftovers from Carolyn's residency." Jim was bound and determined that his supper would *not* get cold while Sandburg explored something that had been right under his nose for at least fifteen minutes. He stepped around his roommate and sat at the table, opening his beer and getting in one large bite of pasta before Blair suddenly dropped all four bottles in a tight group on the table in front of him. Jim fought the urge to sneeze that arose with the minute dust from the bottles. Victorious, he busied himself with eating while his supper was hot, waiting to see if the younger man made the connection he'd made when he dug the bottles out from behind the more current spices in his meager stock.

"These are the spices you smelled in the evidence room today." Blair crowed, and Jim smiled. He might not have been willing to make the hazardous trip to the bulk department at Winco, but he could still find a way to do what his partner wanted. Shoveling another bite of pasta in, Jim nodded.

"All of them? Every one?"

Another bite, another nod. Damn, he hadn't realized he was this hungry.

"Cool, man! That's great, it's just great! Let's see, we've got Thyme. We've got Sage. Parsley. Rosemary." Blair pronounced the labels out loud, again, slowly, clearly, placing the bottles in a row as he spoke. Finished, the grad student frowned in thought for just a second, then his gaze shot up to meet Jim's. "The song! Simon and Garfunkel, what did they call it? Um, Can, can something..." Blair's fingers were snapping as he tried to pull the name out of his memory.

"Can kul...Scahbowoh Fah," Jim mumbled around another bite of pasta, chasing it down with a swallow of beer. Blair was frowning at him, so Jim repeated himself, sans pasta this time. "'Canticle' was the part Simon and Garfunkel added, the war protest part. 'Scarborough Fair' was the original folk song they adapted."

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme," Blair sang softly, moving the jars into order with the song. "I don't know the rest, but I know it had something to do with remembering love."

Jim got up to refill his plate as his roommate finally sat, still staring at the bottles. Returning with another half plate of pasta, Jim added salad this time. Blair had already helped himself, and was eating now with the same gusto with which his roommate had finished off his first plate. Silence reigned for a few minutes, Jim taking the time now to taste his food as he ate. After polishing off the second helping, Jim pushed his plate aside and leaned back into his chair. Taking a sip of beer as he eyed the spice jars on the end of the table, he softly began to recite:

"Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine." Another sip of beer, and then his gaze found Sandburg, hand frozen with a loaded fork halfway to his mouth. When their eyes met, Blair smiled mischievously.

"I, uh, I didn't catch which album Santana put out with their version of that song."

"Cute, Sandburg." Jim stood, collecting his plate and beer. "For that little show of disrespect you can do the dishes."

"Hey, no disrespect intended, man. Just never thought that sort of song was your style." Blair choked back a laugh as Jim scowled at him before heading into the kitchen. He rinsed his plate, then in spite of his threat to leave Blair with the dishes, left the water running, adding the soap to wash them himself. His roommate rattled on in the background, something about popular culture and the war, probably trying to explain how Star Trek, The Original Series had impacted the war protest effort. Jim listened for a moment, then lost himself in the smooth sensation of aerated water flowing over his hands.

_*On the side of a hill a sprinkling of leaves washes the grave with silvery tears. _

_A soldier cleans and polishes a gun, sleeps unaware of the clarion call._*

It was surprising how easily the lyrics were retrieved from the recesses of his mind. The song had enraptured him, warbling from Grace's kitchen radio when he was a child, not yet twelve years old. The prescience of it now unnerved him, and he shivered at a sudden flash of memory: graves on a hill in Peru. Seven of them, seven good men that he'd buried by himself. Once he'd taken care of his men, he'd cleaned his gun and slept one last night beside their graves before heading out to fulfill their mission alone--unaware of the clarion call already sounding in his own body, in his own genetic code, the call to be the Sentinel for the Chopec, and later for his own city of Cascade.

_*War bellows blazing in scarlet battalions, Generals order their soldiers to kill._

_And to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten...*_

He'd never forgotten, though, even as he himself had been forgotten by the generals that sent him to enlist the Chopec in fighting a war that wasn't theirs, not truly. And still the Sentinel fought on; the war had allowed him to change locations and uniforms, but his battles weren't over, his war hadn't ended yet.

_*Tell her to find me an acre of land: Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Between the salt sea and the sea strand...*_

He'd danced to that same tune years later, in a bar on the base in California, after he was finally pulled out of Peru and just before he'd left the Army for good. There'd been a woman that night, Lauren, Lauren Ball, and he'd laughed when she said "Not quite Lauren Bacall." Then she and Jim had danced--to that song and a whole slew of others. He'd been nervous, on edge all night long, trying to bury his uncertainty about his immediate future in the music, the booze, Lauren's company, anything, unsure about his decision to return to Cascade but certain all the same he couldn't stay in the military, not any more--not after Peru. He didn't know why, he just knew he had to leave.

_*Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme._

_Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine...*_

Jim couldn't stop the shudder that ran through him, the sudden conviction that flowed with it. Looking up to find Blair standing next to him, touching his elbow as the water began to overflow the sink, Jim blurted out, "I know why he killed them."

Blair reached over him to shut the water off, then leaned on one hip against the counter, frowning slightly at Jim. Jim took a minute to release the drain in the sink, preventing more water from overflowing onto his boots. He replaced the stopper, then, hands braced against the cool edge of the steel sink, stared again at Blair. He'd zoned, Jim knew that; he could see the concern in his Guide's eyes, but he shrugged it off the way he shrugged off the water all over the counter and on the kitchen floor.

"I know why he killed them." Jim said it again, marveling for a moment that here he was the one pulling it out of thin air, when he'd counted on Blair to handle that part of the case. Arms crossed, the anthropologist lifted his eyebrows encouragingly.

"Yeah, so, why did he kill them?" A reasonable, patient tone of voice, one used for dim-witted adults and slow children, and evidently also good for prone-to-zone Sentinels. Jim glared at Blair just long enough to let him know that his tone of voice had not gone unnoticed, then stared over his friend's shoulder as he tried to formulate the conviction into words.

"_'Remember me to one who lives there. She once was a true love of mine._'" His gaze caught and held Sandburg's. "She's dead. His lover, the one he loves, she's dead, and he's sending these women as messages."

"Whoa, now that's a pretty strange message to send the woman you love. 'I've just slept with this prostitute, now I want her to tell you I love you?' That does *not* compute, Jim, not at all. Does he love the woman or hate her?" Blair was the one who dug out a towel, and mopped up the water on the floor and the counter.

Staring off into the distance while his roommate worked, Jim explored that thought, felt it out like a new tooth, then looked at Sandburg again.

"Maybe he's not sure."

"Whether he loves or hates her?" Blair's incredulity faded as Jim shook himself and began washing the dishes in the sink. Blair automatically got a clean towel and reached for the plate Jim handed him after rinsing it. "Wait a minute, you know, that could be true."

"*Could* be true? Of course it's true, Sandburg. I thought of it."

As intended, his roommate's features lit in a smile at Jim's bravado, but the smile was quickly supplanted on Sandburg's face by a thoughtful frown. He dried the plate as if it was the most important thing in the world, obviously thinking hard. Sometimes Jim wondered what he would see if he peeked in Sandburg's ears at a time like this. Could Sentinel sight actually see the gears turning in there? Jim concentrated his attention on the sink, but he didn't have to hide his smile. Hot in pursuit of the idea they were discussing, Sandburg was oblivious to the fact he was amusing his Sentinel.

"Really, Jim, think about it. Love and hate are the strongest expression of emotion we know, not opposites, not like light and dark, since the opposite of love is indifference; hate is more like love gone bad - the flip side of the same coin. You can't hate someone you don't care about, and you can't love someone you couldn't hate. So, this guy, he loves--"

"Loved," Jim corrected, dunking the saucepan in the suds and carefully scrubbing the white sauce off the rim.

Blair accepted his correction and went on without pausing. "Loved her and she's done him wrong or something, and now she's dead and he feels guilty or he misses her, can't decide what he really feels, so he sleeps with women who remind him of her, looking for the love he's lost and then kills them because he's mad they're not her, or because he's still getting his revenge on her after all these years?"

The saucepan rinsed, Jim handed it to Blair. On second thought maybe he wasn't so sure about this after all.

"No." He shook his head once. "Nope, now you've just got a really bad country and western song, Cowboy. Forget it."

"No, wait, Jim, I think you're right, I really think this fits. But, that still leaves us with why Morag? Not only why did he attack her in the first place, but why didn't he kill her?"

Jim stared bleakly at the suds for a minute.

"Po was convinced it was someone she knew, someone who knew the family well enough to know about the sound room in the basement." The perfect place to commit his crime. Jim had seen the stereo in the background of the crime scene photos; it was the same stereo system sitting in Morag's apartment. How could she could stand that reminder of what she'd been through? But, Morag didn't remember what she'd been through. Maybe it didn't bother her at all, the way Peru didn't bother him.

Right. Peru didn't bother him, didn't have an effect on his life at all. Nothing like a big blank spot in your mind. And, in another life he'd been a lounge singer in Vegas. Blair's hand on his arm startled him out of his reverie.

"You okay, man? Looked like you were about to zone again."

Jim shook his head.

"No, just thinking." He stared at the wall for a minute, and then looked at his roommate. "Morag's the wild card in the deck, Chief. She fits the physical profile of his other victims, and the date, but why did he choose her, and more importantly, why didn't he kill her? Did he know she wouldn't remember him?"

"No kidding." Blair took a deep breath and blew it out. "It was a hell of a chance he took. And, was her father protecting someone? I mean, what kind of a man would protect the man that had raped and beaten his daughter?" Jim didn't miss the shiver the younger man couldn't control. Blair concentrated on drying the last few dishes, and started putting them away.

"I don't know Chief, I don't know." Jim rinsed the last piece of silverware, then let the water out, his weariness undeniable at last. Washing out the sink, he put the towel and dishrag away, then stretched and rubbed one hand over his face. "Time to veg, Sandburg. We can figure this out tomorrow."

"Hey, man, there's a Star Trek double feature tonight--'The Devil in the Dark' is the first episode, starts about now. Come on, man, we'll miss the opening."

"Star Trek? Not on your life, 'man,'" Jim growled, heading for the couch and the remote. Blair was there ahead of him, grabbing the remote for himself. It took less than two seconds for Jim to take the smaller man down, and he retrieved the coveted item with a flourish before stepping back and letting his roommate up off the floor. Jim waited until Sandburg was standing, then shoved his friend back onto the couch. Scowling, he stood over Blair, remote pointed threateningly.

"Never, never get between a Sentinel and the remote, chump. You'll lose every time, and you just might get hurt in the process."

Blair's grin was infectious, and Jim felt the corners of his mouth pulling up in return. He fought it, tried to hold his frown, but knew he'd lost when Sandburg launched a pillow at him.

"Okay, so that's chapter two of my diss, man, ways to placate and pacify grumpy Sentinels. Let them have the remote *all* of the time and don't interrupt their TV--especially when it's Monday Nitro Wrestling." Ignoring Jim's glare, Sandburg settled himself on the couch, feet tucked up underneath him, then gestured with both hands at the TV. "Now hurry up and sit down and get this show on the road before we miss the first part!"

With a sigh, Jim sat and clicked the TV on. Scary thing was, he knew *exactly* which channel to tune it to.

Later that night, much later, Jim was tracking Hortas in Peru when the phone rang.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The hiss and static of the scanner filled the loft, indefinable noises bracketing Persis's small voice. Blair somehow managed to find and tune the channel in the dark, while Jim stood beside him, cell phone open and trying to get somewhere with their young caller. No time to wonder why she'd called Jim this time, his roommate had already tried to hand the phone off to him; but Blair refused, hissing, "She called you, man!" while pushing the phone back at Jim. Blair wished for Sentinel ears while he fiddled with the buttons on the scanner, jumped when it came on, and, turning it up, pushed 'record' on the tape player.

"...scared. I don' wanna be taken away in a bag!"

Jim stood there, so tense for a minute Blair was afraid he'd zoned. Just as he reached for his friend's elbow, though, the Sentinel took a deep breath.

"Who was taken away in a bag?"

Oh, shit. A _body bag_. Jim had seen his share of those; Blair had too, since he'd become an observer on the police force. What would a little girl know about body bags? Damn a world where children understood those kinds of details about life and death!

The silence dragged out, but Blair could hear the snuffling, the heartbreakingly small sobs over the scanner, and, then, finally, came a very small, very tiny voice. Still Persis, but...

"Momma did."

Oh, god, first Morag and now this. Wasn't his cup full yet? Elbows on the counter, Blair buried his face in his hands and felt Jim's hand on his shoulder briefly, before it dropped away. Blair resisted the urge to grab it back up again, to have something, anything to hold on to while this nightmare unfolded around him.

"Who took your mother away?"

_"_The soljer police did."

Then, as if that admission broke the dam, the words began to spill from their caller. "They didn't think Emby could see, but I was there, and I saw it, and they caught Mommy's hair all up in the zipper and they had to cut it to make the zipper close and Daddy was screaming at them and fighting them for hurting her again only Cap'n Shiffer, he made Daddy stop screaming, said 'your li'l gal needs you too' and Daddy stopped then, and he wanted to hold Emby, but they wouldn't let him, just made him hold my hand and we went in the big car to the doctor's place."

A long pause, then Jim somehow found the next question, his police instincts coming out even in the midst of the shock. Funny, Blair had never noticed her accent before. It was distinctly Southern--maybe Georgia?

"Did they catch the man who hurt your mother?"

"No. Daddy yelled a lot 'cuz they never catched him. That man, he promised Momma he would let us go if we were good, but none of us were ever good enough and Momma kept crying so I came and Emby went away, she went away and I listened for her. But he left, and Momma she took me, and we walked through the woods, only then she fell down and she wouldn't get up and I sat there with her, me and Emby, until the soljers came."

_*Oh my god... oh my god...*_

A small sob, and she whispered, "Jim, I'm so scared. The man, he's there, I know he's there, and I'm so scared for Emby." Then, petulantly, "Sheena says I'm just a big chicken."

"It's all right to be scared. That doesn't make you a chicken, not at all. You're being smart, you're asking for help when you need it. You know what though? We'd feel a lot better, Blair and I would, if you'd tell your dad. Can you tell him about the man who's watching you now?"

"Daddy isn't here anymore. He's gone; they gave him a big box, with a flag on it. Emby has the flag, she put it in the little box in the wall, with his tags and stuff. It's just me and Emby and Sheena now. Please, you can't let him hurt Emby, you can't!"

Jim seemed a bit lost for a moment, and Blair grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled a frantic note, hoping it was legible in the darkness. Sentinel sight could read it, though, because he asked the right questions.

"Listen, is there anyone you trust, someone you can talk to? We could talk to you at school. Maybe we could take you to a safe place, somewhere the man couldn't get you. Who's your favorite teacher?"

Then, impossibly, a giggle.

"Blair. Emby said she thought only Gawd could make them dry bones dance lahk dat."

A beat, and Blair could feel the Sentinel's suspicion in the air, could feel the almost instantaneous hardening of the great heart that had been softened by the terrible tale.

"You go to school with Blair?"

"No, not me, Emby did. She used ta let me go to class with her, but I had to be quiet, 'cuz she said people looked at us funny when I talked. I don't talk funny, do I, Jim?"

"No, no you don't, not at all."

_*Oh, god, no, no you don't talk funny, Persis, you're adorable, and you're fragile and vulnerable and you're not telling us anything that will really help us here!*_ The pencil broke in Blair's hand, and he fumbled for the pieces in the dark, almost missing the end of the conversation.

"Oh. Emby says I'll be old enough to go to school someday, but for now I have to stay inside and play."

"Persis, please, can you tell me where to find you? We really want to help you, to talk to you, but it would be easier to make sure the man doesn't get you if we could meet with you and Emby."

A small silence, but Blair felt hope leap in his heart. Silence was better than the outright denial his own request for information had been met with last night. Then, a sigh breathed feather-soft across the connection.

"You can't tell Sheena I tol' you. You have to promise she won't find out! As long as she thinks it's Emby's fault she'll leave me alone."

"I promise, I won't tell Sheena."

Another silence, then, finally, _"_Okay, you can come over in the morning, before--" and there was nothing, nothing at all. Blair could tell Jim was extending his hearing, trying to find more clues in the background noises, but he, the Guide, couldn't hear anything at all, not until there was a sudden, muffled "Fuck!" in the background and the line went dead.


	7. Chapter 7

_"The days darken round me, and the years,_

_Among new men, strange faces, other minds..."_

_\---Alfred, Lord Tennyson_

_   
_

Nothing was certain this morning, nothing, not people, not places, not even the events of his own life. All around him the early morning was softened and blurred, everyone's business suddenly amorphous, undefined in the pale grey blanket of fog that shrouded Cascade, enveloping the road before him, hiding the University behind sharp smudges of dark evergreen trees. Fog was his world, inside and out. Blair laid on the Volvo's horn loud and long as an electric blue Geo materialized ahead--turning in from a side street, Blair's car unnoticed until he was almost on top of them. Didn't people realize what 50 foot visibility meant? It meant drive slower and look twice and then once more before driving out into the street. Fog was worse than snow, because people respected it less, drove faster, imagined it to be more forgiving. Trouble was, it wasn't; people could get just as damaged, just as injured in fog, worse even, because no one expected it. Just like yesterday and last night, when Blair found himself blindsided first by the cold hard truth about Morag, and then that damn phone call that left Jim irritated and angry and more than half convinced the entire thing with Persis was a hoax. But Blair didn't think it was, and had spent a *very* frustrating amount of time last night and again this morning trying to convince his roommate the same.

Blair waited patiently through a red light, then turned into the University parking lot. Straight edges softened and smeared by the fog became gradually harder, sharper, less deniable as he approached Hargrove Hall. His life was the same. Except of course, for Persis, who with every call grew more shapeless, untraceable, the truth unknowable. But the facts he wanted to deny, the things that had happened to his friend, only got harder and sharper the closer he looked. God, how in the world was he going to face Morag today--god, how did she face her days, carrying the weight of what had been done to her? She didn't, he reminded himself, hearing his own flip answer to Jim, the second time they'd met: "Traumatic memories tend to get repressed, and hell, I don't know, but that all sounds pretty traumatic to me!" But he lived with Jim, and he knew, repressed or not, those memories bugged the Sentinel, somewhere, somehow, down deep in his psyche. Blair just hoped he was around to help pick up the pieces when Mt. Ellison finally blew.

And Morag...hell, yes, whether she remembered it or not, what happened to her bothered her. Her senses came online in the spring; spring was when she'd been attacked. And that black clothing, the Gothic crap...

Suddenly, the thought that had been dancing just beyond his reach since yesterday's awful revelation, the one he hadn't wanted to even think, surfaced, became hard-edged and undeniable, like the building looming before him. Blair managed to park the Volvo before he crashed it into the concrete barrier, and then he just sat, hands clenched around the steering wheel in a vain attempt to stop their shaking. God, if wishes were horses, this was one beggar of a ride. Several deep breaths, and he reached for his cell phone.

Speed dial was a wonderful thing, Blair thought inanely, staring out of the car at the fog-obscured world around him. One ring, then, "Ellison."

"Jim?" Damn, he hated it when his voice squeaked like that!

"Sandburg? Everything all right?"

_*No, everything's not all right, not if what I just realized is true. Oh, and by the way, in the midst of your search for "Cap'n Shiffer" and a serial murderer, here's one more banal thought that just came to me.*_

"Yeah, I'm fine, it's just... look, I was thinking, on the way over to Rainier..." His throat was too dry to talk, for some idiotic reason.

_*Come on Blair, be a man, spit it out.* _

"With those new cases? The murdered prostitutes? We've got one a year now, don't we?"

"Um, I think so. There may be a few missing years." Jim didn't sound too enthused, obviously underwhelmed with Blair's observation so far. Well, hey, just give the kid time.

_*Just humor me, Jim. This one packs a wallop.*_

"Okay, could you check it out for me? See what years we're missing?"

There was a longsuffering sigh and some vague noises of assent on Jim's end of the call, and then the distinct creak of the detective's chair as he shifted at his desk and started digging for the requested information. Heart pounding as he waited for Jim to shuffle through the data on his end, Blair clenched a fist and pounded softly on the steering wheel--very softly; he didn't want Jim to hear his distress. If he closed his eyes he could see his roommate; the older man so cool and collected, the calm in the eye of the storm. Was this what Jim had been like when Lash had abducted Blair? Absolutely, completely focused and totally lethal in his intent to catch the perpetrator of such beastly crimes? On the surface the Sentinel was so very unflappable--cold, Blair had once called him, not understanding what it took to survive in Jim's world. In utter ignorance he'd judged the officer and his fellows at Cascade P.D. as unfeeling and heartless. Check their humanity at the door, man.

Well, maybe some in that building did, but not Jim, not Simon, nor the other officers he worked with in Major Crimes. They all cared, more than they should. It was part of what made them so damn good at their jobs. It was also the part of them that died a little with each crime, especially in cases like this, and so it was they learned to guard their hearts very carefully--*very* carefully.

Dropping his fist into his lap, Blair tried to see through the fog, tried find some of his partner's steadiness for himself in the grey vacuum that surrounded him. Breathing deeply, he sought his center, told himself that Jim was working on this too, the Sentinel of the Great City, and even if they couldn't wish this undone they could at least nail the son of a bitch.

The fog outside was thinning a bit, Blair was certain of it when he opened his eyes. The pressure in his chest was easing, whether the calm was leaching into him from the other end of the connection, or just from the knowledge that he wasn't alone, that Jim was there and he was taking this burden as personally as Blair was, if not more. Absently, Blair wondered what his partner would say if he just popped off with: "Oh, hey, man, there's like, this psychic connection between us now, you know? I used it to settle myself down when I came up with this particular revelation for you. Could feel it, reached right through the phone and touched your aura or something and calmed myself right down."

Right. And Jim would cuff him upside the head and tell him to stop imagining things and probably pull back further into himself than he'd been before Blair had met him. Nothing like a man in control of his feelings.

After a long moment, Jim's reply on the line drew Blair out of his musings, and he tried to focus through the remaining fog to make sense of his roommate's words.

"...first one we've got was in 1979, here in Cascade. After that, if I include the ones from the outlying areas, we've got one like clockwork every year...wait, okay, there's none from 1989 until...1993. Then we've got '93, '94, '96, and '97."

_*Damn!*_ Blair knew with a sinking certainty that this unpleasant fact wasn't going to go away.

"Jim, what happens if a rape isn't reported? If someone comes to the hospital and doesn't file charges or anything?" His hand was clenched around the steering wheel again.

"Well, the hospital will call it in if they suspect something, but the victim doesn't have to talk to the officers. Someone from one of the rape crisis clinics will be called in too, usually, whether or not the victim chooses to press charges."

_*Please, Jim, figure it out, don't make me say it.* _

But Jim was oblivious to his silent pleading. Evidently that psychic bond only worked one way. Sandburg knew with that same sinking certainty he'd have to spit it out, somehow. He heard a mumble of voices on the line, Jim was talking to someone else for a minute, and Blair waited, marshaling his courage, trying and failing to find a way around the words he had to say.

"Sandburg? You still there?"

What? Oh, yeah, oh, god, he was still here, still wishing he wasn't.

"Yeah, I'm here. Okay, is there any way to check those records? Any way to see if maybe there was an attack, even if charges weren't filed?"

Jim mulled that thought over, and Blair could tell the light was beginning to dawn.

"You're thinking that there may have been attacks even during the years we don't have a murder."

"Morag lived, and if he was picking on prostitutes..."

"They might not have reported it at all," Jim finished for him. "Okay, I can do that, see if we can't get some information from rape clinics or maybe the hospital. Now, you want to tell me what's really on your mind?"

Maybe that connection was two-way after all.

Blair swallowed the lump in his throat, leaned his head back against the seat, and tried to find the words.

"Remember I said Morag didn't always dress like this?" Blair heard Jim's frown, he *heard* it. "She didn't, she dressed like any normal person, until..." Another swallow, another deep breath. _*Okay, Blair, just spit it out.*_ "Remember I said she disappeared that one year, Jim? It was 1995. She didn't show up for the party on April Fool's, but no one had seen her for a couple of days before that, and Cindy, she'd gone by Morag's apartment looking for her a couple of times, but no one answered the door. When Morag came back the next fall, that's when she started dressing in black, Jim, that's when all that Gothic crap started."

Silence. Jim would be rubbing his forehead now, that's what he always did when he was troubled, or trying to figure something out. Then there was a deep sigh from the other end of the connection.

"There's nothing reported that year. You think maybe..." Jim didn't want to say it either.

"Yeah."

"All right, Chief, I'll look into it. See what I can come up with."

"Thanks, Jim." _*Not really, I'm not really thanking you for helping me confirm the very scary and ugly possibility that Morag had been attacked not once, but twice by the same creep. Damn!*_

"Sure."

Okay, remember to click the phone off or he'd be crying when he got the bill, and it was done. The steering wheel vibrated under Blair's fists, and a passerby stared, turning to his companion with some remark that had them both tittering. Mocking them as they disappeared into the fog felt good. The damp pall that blanketed his world was lifting, he could definitely see further now, and it looked like it might be a sunny day. Usually was, after dense morning fog like this. Too bad his internal haze was only getting worse. Blair tried to gather his thoughts and his composure, along with his backpack, and climbed out of the car to set out through the thinning mist. Whether he liked it or not, he had things to do and places to be today.

Ever the efficient detective, Jim had called the Registrar's Office at 7:30 a.m., the very minute they opened this morning. The papers he'd requested arrived just in time for Blair to take them with him to his Anthro 101 section. Midterms today--this little project for Jim gave him something to do, something important but not so engrossing that he couldn't level a glare at the giggling sorority girls and frat rats in the back section, or grant a nod of affirmation toward the more serious cadre of older students that sat in the left front side of the auditorium. He had to do something, anything, to help this child Persis out; to help catch the son of a bitch that had destroyed Morag. Somehow, next to that sort of thing, proctoring an Anthro 101 exam didn't exactly stack up as crucial in the grand scheme of things. It just left him with too much time to think, and too many unpleasant things to think about.

Blair worked his way through the first class list, from his first semester after his Master's, with no students that matched, none at all, no one named Persis or any permutations thereof, and no one named Emby, and no one at all that he could recall with a rag doll child in tow. Persis was a Hindi name, Hindi or Sanskrit, but Sitka School didn't have anyone of that heritage in their student body, didn't know of any parents who were recent converts to Hinduism or New Age adherents that would have named their child such a thing. And, no one fitting that category lurked either in Blair's memory or his past classes. A second glance back through the list revealed nothing he hadn't seen before. Another sigh, another evil eye at the back rows, and then on to the next list. Damn, he didn't think he'd taught this many classes in the last few years.

Blair worked his way through several more lists, remembering to look up and pay attention to his current class occasionally. Surely Jim would have played the tape of Persis's call for Simon by now, the two men trying to decide if it was a crank caller or not. "Piss anybody off in the drama department, lately, Sandburg?" would be Simon's dry retort, but Blair knew both men wouldn't stop until they figured out what was going on. Momentarily distracted by the first of the exams to plop on his desk in front of him, Sandburg nodded to the student and went back to his lists.

Several hours later he'd covered them all, every single list, and found exactly nothing to go on. He was sitting in his office, staring blankly at the test he was supposedly grading when Jim's call came. It was a good thing Blair had decided to skip lunch, because after that particular argument with his roommate, he'd surely have lost whatever he'd have taken the time to eat.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

"Chief--"

Blair stalked down the third floor of Hargrove Hall ahead of Jim, ignoring the Sentinel. Jim lengthened his stride, covering in two long steps the distance it took the shorter man four. His hand closed over Sandburg's upper arm, and Jim stopped, letting his own inertia pull the anthropologist around to face him. Blue eyes blazing, his friend stared at him. Jim softened his hold Blair's arm, but kept his hand there. Around them the afternoon sounds of university life ebbed and flowed: the droning lecture in the room they'd just passed, the chatter of students in the stairwell, headed outside to enjoy the rare spring sunshine, the rustling of thousands of sheets of paper in books and file folders and reports. Jim tuned all that out, focused only on the very pissed man in front of him.

"Chief, you know Morag's the best chance we have of catching this guy. We *have* to talk to her."

"Right," Blair sneered. "Jim, you read the report. What makes you think she's gonna remember more now than she did then? Man, they said she couldn't remember *any* of it!" Hands on his hips, Blair glared at Jim.

Jim sighed and stood up straight.

"Chief, they never really got to interview her. You saw that. Her dad--"

"Was trying his damnedest to protect his daughter, to give her a chance to get her mind and her life back together. You can't blame him for what he did when they found out she couldn't remember. Hell, Jim, the man was just glad his daughter was alive." Sandburg emphasized his point with a finger in Jim's chest as he spoke, and Jim fought the urge to grab it and shove it back at the smaller man.

"Chief--"

"Look, man, unless you're gonna tell me you've suddenly remembered your time in Peru in vast and specific detail, I'm gonna insist that this is a bad idea." Blair's voice dropped, and he nodded and smiled thinly at a pair of passing coeds before skewering Jim again with his gaze. "A *very* bad idea."

Jim sighed, staring at the end of the hall, at the door just discernable in the side wall there, waiting until the girls had finished making goo-goo eyes at his partner and turned the corner behind him before addressing Sandburg again. He knew all this, he'd had this same...discussion with Simon before heading over to the University to round up Sandburg for the task. But, he and Simon were both policemen, and they both understood that sometimes you had to ask the questions no one else wanted to ask.

"Bad idea or not, Chief, it's the only idea we've got right now. There wasn't anything new in the evidence that came in this morning. I've requested background information on John Gilbertson and personnel is trying to locate Detective Po for me. Simon okayed the DNA testing, but that will take time, and there's no guarantee the guy will be on record anyway. Morag's the best lead we've got right now. I wish there was another way, Chief, but I just don't have a lot of options right now."

Still glaring, Blair turned and headed down the hall, ducking through the open door Jim had seen, the detective at his heels. This time it was Jim who almost ran into Blair as the anthropologist came to a sudden stop.

Jim's first impression was that the Sociology department didn't have much of a budget. Blair got an office to himself, with windows and everything. Morag evidently shared her office with at least two other people, and there was barely space for their desks and a couple of spare chairs in a room not much bigger than Sandburg's bedroom at the loft. Books and papers and manilla folders were piled everywhere. One tall filing cabinet overflowed forlornly into another chair in a corner. The room did have one small window, qualified more as a clerestory than anything else, except the ceiling wasn't high enough. Ancient fluorescent lighting dangled from the ceiling, fizzing and buzzing, but the office still managed to look dark, and it smelled strongly of stale coffee and mildew. Jim wasn't really surprised when Morag wasn't there. He wouldn't be here much at all, either, not if this was his office.

One person was there, a tall, cadaverously thin man with holes in his jeans and stains on his blue oxford shirt. Wool socks and sandals completed his outfit, and his short, dingy blonde hair needed washing, badly. Bent over, digging through a pile of folders, he didn't acknowledge their arrival until Sandburg spoke.

"Hey, Reggie. Seen Morag around?"

The thin man didn't stop his search, merely glanced at them long enough for Jim to see that he sported one of those ridiculous little goatee beards. It looked like he'd had Veggie Surprise for lunch, given the debris caught in that chin hair.

"Hey, Sandburg. Nope, she ain't here. If you're smart, you'll leave before she shows up." Reggie found what he was looking for, stood, and paged through the folder as he shook his head. "Man, good thing her defense is almost here. It can't come too soon for the rest of us. I think the strain of it all's getting to the poor girl. Like she's into major PMS or something." Grinning at his own joke, Reggie missed Blair's immediate reaction, but Jim's hand caught his arm and after a tense second Sandburg relaxed. Jim did too, waiting for the famous Sandburg wit to come to Morag's defense, instead.

"You'll get the picture one of these days -- *if* you ever get that far, Reg," Blair said, coldly. "Morag's got office hours this afternoon, right?"

Reggie rolled eyes set too close in his pock-marked face at Blair, and continued thumbing through his folder. Jim was about ready to snatch it from the guy and beat the information out of him when Reggie finally answered.

"She does, but she ain't gonna be here. Pitched a hissy about poor O'Brien down the hall playing his stereo too loud and then blew out of here. Man, that was one black cloud she was under. At least she took it with her when she left."

Uh oh. Jim and Blair exchanged a glance; this didn't sound good at all.

"Did she say where she was going?" Blair inquired.

"No, and I didn't ask. Just go outside and look for the black cloud, man, I ain't kidding." Reggie dropped the folder on his desk and squatted down next to a different stack on the floor.

"Yeah, well, thanks, Reg." Blair tapped the door on his way out, and Jim followed him into the hall. The anthropologist stood there, staring towards the stairwell, hands on his hips and anger still radiating from him.

"You think she went home?" Jim figured he took his life into his hands by asking, but hey, what was life without a little danger?

"It's as good a guess as any, especially if her hearing's bothering her. Her classes are done for the day."

"Okay, you done here?"

"If I wasn't, I am now." Without waiting to see if Jim was following, Blair headed for the stairs. Jim translated his last statement without any trouble at all: No Neanderthal Genetic Throwback Cop was getting close to Morag without Sandburg there to pick up the pieces. Which was just fine with the Neanderthal in question.

 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

_"And Niamh calling Away, come away:_

_Empty your heart of its mortal dream,_

_The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round..."_

 

_\--- William Butler Yeats_

 

The afternoon was bathed in sunlight as bright and clear as the morning haze had been dense and damp. Blair's sunglasses were perched on his nose, but Jim wasn't convinced it was because of the bright light. Sometimes the kid took his distance any way he could get it. The music was audible to the Sentinel from almost half a mile away, and he automatically tuned it out almost before he noticed it. Blair started bouncing and humming in rhythm to the song when they turned the corner two blocks from Morag's apartment. When he caught Jim's disgusted glance, the anthropologist just grinned.

"Hey, 'Orinoco Flow' by Enya. Cool tune, no matter what your style is, man." The grin grew wicked. "Though I'd say constant exposure to the more ancient forms of rock and roll, like, say, maybe 'Santana' could render you incapable of appreciating the finer aspects of the music, man."

Jim just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"I wouldn't mind appreciating it if it wasn't blasting all over the neighborhood."

Sandburg's grin faded.

"You should turn your hearing down. This could really damage your ears."

"Already taken care of, Chief. What I can't believe is someone hasn't called in a complaint about it yet."

"Hey, you know, spring fever. It's spring break next week, and most of this neighborhood is college students and stuff. They understand the need for a little stress relief, man."

The music faded. But, as Jim parked the Ford, it swelled again, louder now as they climbed out of the truck. Blair turned back, digging in the glove compartment for a couple of earplugs. Sandburg had to grab Jim's arm to get his attention; Jim was taking no chances with his hearing and had turned it down, way down. He put the earplugs in without demur. It was the same song, again.

_"Sail away, sail away, sail away..."_

"Man, that is some awesome system!" Blair shouted, pulling his sunglasses off and dropping them in his jacket pocket. Two pairs of blue eyes suddenly locked on each other in fearful realization.

"Morag!" Blair shouted, and they were down the sidewalk and racing up the stairs to her apartment three at a time. Standing there as Sandburg pounded on the door, Jim could feel the porch vibrating; so could Sandburg, by the way he nervously eyed the floor beneath them.

"Morag! Morag! It's Blair, man, open up!" There was no way he could be heard, not over that stereo system.

_"We can sail, we can sail, sail away, sail away, sail away..."_

The date, the date...it was just the 26th, right? Three days early for their guy and his sicko anniversary, but still...Jim pushed the sudden swell of nausea away, and grabbed Sandburg's arm as he started to pound on the door again. Shaking his head, he indicated the door knob. The door opened easily at Blair's touch, and Jim winced as, once again, the music got louder.

_"Carry me all way to the land I've never been..."_

There was no sign of Morag in the apartment. His hearing turned down to almost nothing, Jim noticed the faint scent almost immediately, and his arm shot out to stop Blair before he could step over the small white box lying on the hardwood just beyond the front door. Ignoring the music reverberating in the room around them, Jim focused on the box. It had obviously been dropped, the lid lay just beside it, the flowers it contained peeking out beneath the box and the tissue that cushioned them within it. Jim knelt and carefully turned the box over with the nose of the gun he didn't remember drawing from his holster. When he pushed the tissue aside Sandburg's hand tightened on his shoulder painfully.

It was a nosegay, just a small one. Made up of pansies. And two white roses. And, Jim confirmed with a careful sniff, rosemary. All tied jauntily with a purple ribbon, bearing a card Jim could just read. Blair could read it too; Jim felt the air move as his roommate inhaled sharply.

"Been a good girl? I'll be waiting for you. Happy anniversary."

*SHIT!* As Sandburg would say, this *sucked.*

Jim couldn't use his hearing, not with that damn music, but Blair nodded as Jim indicated he should stay put with a touch on his arm. Another visual sweep of the apartment, then swiftly, Jim moved to check behind the kitchen bar, arms straight and gun out in front of him in proper police procedure. Nothing lurked there but the terra cotta planter, shattered on the floor, clay fragments poking from a bed of dark soil and now very withered pansies. Jim paused, sorting past the smells of earth and garbage, trying to find the one smell he knew went with Morag...there! He swung around, but the bathroom door behind him was closed, and a careful try of the knob revealed it was locked. A black cord ran from the outer room underneath the door, but Jim ignored it. He didn't have time to figure it out; Morag maybe didn't have time for him to try. Step back, one kick, and as the song sailed away again Jim was in the bathroom, gun first.

Still no Morag, but there was yet another door, closed, the black cord snaking underneath it as well. Swift kick number two revealed a large, walk-in closet, dimly lit by a small, high window. Gun still out in front of him, Jim eased into the room. No Morag, but the scent of her lip gloss was stronger here than anywhere, and that cord ran straight to a pile of black clothing on the floor.

Sandburg was there, now, peeking through the door behind him as Jim holstered his gun. Evidently he thought that was permission to enter. Jim took a deep breath, then swore and turned to shove Sandburg back out the door, but the grad student moved faster than the Sentinel for once, eluding Jim's grasp and pushing past him to the pile of clothing in one swift wriggle. Behind him, Jim was too late to stop Sandburg from pulling aside Morag's black cape and several indeterminate items of black clothing to reveal...

Morag. She'd ripped the hem and side seam out of her narrow black skirt, curling in upon herself in a fetal ball, stereo headphones askew on her head. The blood Jim had smelled was there too, but he couldn't be sure where it was coming from. Blair softly brushed aside the tangle of hair hiding her face, and Jim swore again. Those grey eyes were wide open and blank, staring blindly through a mask of hair and black and purple makeup streaked with tears. Blood ran from one corner of her mouth. Sandburg's hand waving once before her face didn't even rate a blink. Blair pulled the headphones from her ears, the same song blasting from them as in the other room. Shaking her softly got no response; calling her name was useless.

Jim touched Blair's shoulder, and once he had the grad student's attention made his plan clear with a few hand motions. Sandburg stood and stepped back, allowing the larger man in next to Morag. Kneeling, Jim carefully gathered her up into his arms. She wasn't quite limp, but she lay unresponsive in his embrace as he stood. Her backpack and a battered Piglet doll fell to the floor beside his feet; Blair swooped in to grab both items as Jim made his way back out to the main room.

Blair headed for the stereo as Jim deposited Morag gently on the futon.

_"We can sigh, say goodb--_"

The sudden silence was almost overwhelming. Jim's quick examination revealed the sources of the blood he'd smelled to be her hands, fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into the palms, and her lip, evidently bitten through. He circumspectly straightened her skirt, and then her short burgundy cardigan and the long-sleeved black top she wore under it, surreptitiously checking for bruises as he did so. But nothing Jim's sensitive touch or nose could pick up indicated she'd been assaulted.

"Is she--has she--" Blair's voice cracked behind him.

Jim hesitated, then shook his head.

"I don't think so. Do you know what she was wearing this morning?"

Shaking his head, Blair blew his breath out in a heavy sigh, then dropped both doll and backpack on the floor to kneel beside Morag, reaching out to take her face in both hands. Jim pulled the earplugs from his ears, pocketing them as he stood, and made his way back to the bathroom. A quick check of both the bathtub and the closet confirmed his first assessment. After that it only took a second to find a rag and thoroughly dampen it. Blair looked up as Jim came back out, and the detective shook his head.

"I think he just left his calling card today."

Rolling his eyes with relief, Blair took the rag Jim held out. As he carefully washed the makeup off her face, he called Morag's name, softly. There was no response. Jim retrieved his cell phone from his coat pocket.

"I'm gonna call Simon."

Blair nodded, his attention focused on the catatonic woman curled on the couch. Simon promised a forensics team immediately. That accomplished, Jim set a chair carefully over the white box and flowers, then went to where Blair was working with Morag.

"God, Jim, she's so zoned... I don't think I've ever seen you even close to being this far out." Blair's eyes were haunted, he absently waved the rag as he spoke. "From what I read in the police report I figured that's what happened when -- the first time this creep got her, but this... Jim, it wouldn't have been just her hearing, she's close enough to hypersensitive in touch that whole experience... God, and to come home to those flowers... she must have been absolutely terrified, Jim, absolutely. Why didn't she call someone? Call me or you? Damn, she did this on purpose, just turned on the music and zoned."

"Yeah." _Sail away, sail away_.... And Morag had sailed away, used her hyper sense of hearing to zone out and forget it all, her fear, herself, the man who had brutalized her at least once and evidently had every intention of doing so again. But that man hadn't counted on the Sentinel and his Guide, and there was no way he was going to get to Morag through them. Trouble was, Morag didn't seem to have known that either. Sandburg's worried voice cut through his morbid thoughts.

"Damn, Jim, I'm not sure how to bring her out of this. Usually when you zone I can talk you out of it, but, man, she's so far gone..." Blair turned back to Morag, obviously wrapped up in trying to figure out how to bring her out of the zone. "Morag? Morag, listen to me, come on, you gotta come out of it, it's safe now, I'm here and Jim is too, and you're safe..."

Jim listened and watched silently as Blair talked, running his fingers over Morag's slack face in a strangely intimate manner. After a few minutes they could both hear the forensics van pull up outside, and another car he quickly identified as Simon's. Two doors slammed. Simon must have brought Taggart or someone with him. Nothing had changed in the tableau before him, and Jim took a deep breath.

"Chief, I'm gonna call an ambulance."

The response was as immediate and as volatile as Jim expected.

"NO! Jim, no!" Sandburg's horror almost outweighed the disbelief in his face. "Man, I cannot believe you even suggested that! As long as she hasn't been--You know that's *not* what she needs, they'll just dope her up and it will be another three weeks before she comes out of it. Man, modern medicine cannot help her, anymore than it could help you three years ago. The *last* thing she needs right now is a hospital!"

"Chief, you said yourself you didn't know how to bring her out--"

"No, I specifically said I wasn't sure. That's a whole lot different than not knowing. Hell, half the time with you I'm not sure, but I just go with my instincts and it works, you're here, you're fine. And, man, right now my instincts are telling me we let her go to the hospital and she ain't coming out of there without a long stay in the funny room with the padded walls." Jim hesitated, hearing Simon's voice among the group ascending the stairs. Brown, he'd brought Brown with him. Blair heard them too, and leaned closer to Jim, whispering harshly, "She just needs time, man, time and a new focus point, and a safe place to come out of it." Dark blue eyes caught ice blue, the former refusing to back down. Jim sighed, and knew he'd lost. As long as Blair didn't realize Jim hadn't planned on winning, he'd just wanted this out of the way before any spectators arrived.

"Okay, Chief, if that's the way you want it. But, if she's not out of this in twenty-four hours, we take her to the hospital, deal?"

Blair nodded, curls bobbing. He had the grace not to look *too* triumphant.

"Deal." And he turned back to his mission, this time taking one of Morag's wrists and rubbing it between his own, still calling her name softly. Jim rose and turned to meet his captain, marshaling his own arguments on the way.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Several hours later Jim stood in the doorway of Sandburg's room, watching as his friend's candlelit form drew a blanket up over Morag. As usual when it came to hyperactive senses, Blair had been right -- well, almost right. Morag hadn't completely come out of her zone, but about half an hour ago she had suddenly sighed and shifted in the bed, glassy eyes closing as she slipped into what Jim had confirmed a few minutes later was a natural sleep. Blair had stayed with her a little longer, just as he had since Jim had carried her blanket-wrapped form into the loft.

Sandburg's idea of a safe environment to bring Morag out of her zone had been his own room. Plug in Jim's white noise generator, add candle light and some of Sandburg's own blend of oddly peaceful incense, and then Blair started talking. He chattered on all the while Morag laid unresponsive in his bed. One hand loosely circling Morag's wrist, the other gently stroked her face and hair and Jim's Guide talked and talked and talked in that soft, hypnotic tone of voice.

Jim's own contribution had been doctoring the gouges in Morag's palms, and checking the cut in her lip. After that he'd sat in the living room, ostensibly looking through case files and watching the coverage of a freak spring storm in the South. He'd paid more attention to the murmuring cadence of his Guide's voice in the other room than he had to either the reports on front of him or the televised reports of millions of dollars in damage, thousands of people in shelters, three state governors already screaming for Federal Aid. Oh, he'd contributed some tea and a beer when Sandburg's voice seemed about to give out, but there hadn't been much else for him to do.

Now Blair came out of his room, softly shutting the door behind him, stretching and wobbling a bit as he followed Jim out into the main room. Jim sat back down on the couch, the open folders he'd had Simon drop off from the station before him. Blair dropped into the yellow chair with a heavy sigh, hanging his head over the back, arms dangling and feet stretched out before him.

"There's some supper in the kitchen, if you want."

"Yeah, man, in a minute," Blair croaked. Jim shook his head, he didn't know how the man did it, talking for hours like that. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the babble of the tv washing over them. Then Blair rolled his head over to look at Jim.

"Was that Simon I heard?"

"Yeah."

"Did he say what they'd found at her apartment?"

"The flowers were delivered from a local florist. It was a cash purchase; no name required. We've got a description, but it's not much more than what we had before. Tall, dark hair, mid-50's, nice looking. The clerk spent two hours going through mug books at the station, but nothing caught her eye. We're running the prints on the card now, but that might take a while."

"Damn. So we still don't know who he is or where he might be." Blair looked back up at the ceiling. "Jim?"

"Yeah?" Jim clicked the tv off and started putting the folders away. Looked like Blair needed to debrief a bit. Sandburg was still staring at the ceiling as he took a deep breath and asked his question.

"Can you imagine being so terrified that you'd rather just run away inside yourself? Just detach completely from the world around you and hide away from it all? I mean, I know you've repressed stuff, hell I think everyone has at some time or another, but to just want to repress *life?*"

Jim didn't answer, concentrated instead on stacking the folders neatly and precisely on the coffee table in front of him. He sensed rather than saw Blair's head turn toward him as the silence grew, and finally shrugged.

"I don't think anyone can, Chief, not unless you've been there."

And Blair hadn't. Jim had, maybe, in Peru, if he ever remembered that time. Sure, he'd repressed Bud's murder, but that repression had been fed by despair, not fear. Not terror, like Morag. What had it been like for her, to hear and feel her own rape with preternatural hearing and touch? It was his turn to take a deep breath, and then Jim looked up to find Blair sound asleep with his head dropped back again. Jim grinned. He'd better tuck the kid in on the couch, or he'd have to listen to him gripe about a sore neck all day tomorrow. He leaned over and slapped Blair's knee.

"Up and at 'em, Chief. You'll get a crick in your neck sleeping like that."

Blair jumped, twitched, and mumbled something before nodding off to sleep again. Jim sighed. Well, okay, fine, if that's the way it had to be. He stood up, and pulled Sandburg up out of the chair by one arm. That got Sandburg's attention, sort of. The mumbling started up and didn't stop again until Jim had Blair lying on the couch, and a blanket pulled up over his shoulders. Geez, if this was what it took to get out of watching Star Trek every night for the next eternity...chuckling quietly, Jim turned off the lights and headed for his own bed.


	8. Chapter 8

_"I went to blow the fire aflame,_

_But something rustled on the floor,_

_And some one called me by name_

_It had become a glimmering girl..."_

 

_\--William Butler Yeats_

 

"...easenotdeadBlairnotdeaddon'tbedeapleaseBlairwakeuppleasedon'tbedeadplease..."

Jim wasn't sure what woke him up first, all the hairs standing up on the back of his neck or the strange sibilant noise that was actually a voice, barely audible over the white noise generators hissing in Blair's room. A second or two after that his senses verified that it was coming from the living room beneath him, where Blair was sleeping on the couch. Vaguely familiar, it wasn't anyone significant's voice, not that he recognized anyway. No time to decipher the words, he had to move quickly. Grabbing the gun from under his pillow, flinging off his comforter and getting to the top of the stairs took slightly less than two seconds. Adjusting his eyesight to the dark loft as he moved, it was a simple matter to peek over the railing as he felt his way down the stairs, carefully, softly, avoiding all the squeaks and hisses of each board by feel, shifting his weight before the faint noises could sound in the loft. Another second or two to size up the dark shape looming over his roommate as he slept on the sofa. About the same size as Blair, but with a baseball cap obscuring its features, the face turned away from him. Jim couldn't tell who or what it was as he crept across the room, Sentinel senses on the alert. Damn the white noise generators that took his most powerful sense from him when his partner and another innocent were in danger!

The dark figure moved then, leaning over Blair, one hand reaching out to--

"CASCADE PD! FREEZE!"

Things moved even faster after that.

Blair sat straight up on the couch as the dark shape bending over him shrieked and ran. Jim caught up with him/her/it? as it scrabbled frantically at the French doors. A sharp pain in one wrist had Jim swearing out loud as the being flowed through his arms like liquid, and then suddenly, impossibly, she--How did he know it was a she?--was free of his grasp, running, hat flying as she leaped directly at Blair and Jim's gun was pointed and Blair was yelling "NO, JIM!" and the woman was shrieking incoherently with a little child's voice as she climbed all over him. Jim dropped the gun on the coffee table to grab her and suddenly found himself holding a hellion all over again and Blair was over at the wall yelling something about lights! and Jim was trying his best to keep from being clawed to pieces as he prepared for the sudden brightness in the loft and then Sandburg hit the switch and everyone froze.

Jim found himself holding Morag by the hair with one hand, his other arm wrapped around her in a football hold, pinning her and her wildly clawing arms against his body. Blair, his own hair sticking out all directions, mouth open in a round "o" of surprise, stood and stared, and Jim figured his own expression couldn't be much less entertaining. Morag whimpered, but she didn't move.

"Morag?" Blair whispered incredulously.

The figure in Jim's grasp didn't respond, didn't say anything at all, just whimpered again. Jim slowly relaxed his grip, and Morag simply slumped to the floor in a puddle of hair and arms and legs and began to sob softly. The loft was silent except for her hiccups after that, except for the soft sound of Blair's bare feet as he hurried over to them then, stepping carefully around the baseball hat with Eeyore emblazoned on the brim. Shooting one confused glance at Jim, Blair knelt in front of Morag.

"Morag?" His voice was gentle, and Jim tensed as his roommate tentatively reached out to touch Morag's hair. She didn't answer, just shivered and abruptly scooted for the nearest cover she could find -- in this case, the dining room table. She found her way through the chair legs underneath the table and then curled up in a familiar fetal ball on the floor there, arms around her head, hair covering her face and still not talking, just whimpering and hiccuping to herself. The black tights now sported a long run.

Blair stood then, and looked at Jim again. The Sentinel shrugged.

"I woke up and she was standing over you. I couldn't identify who it was, so I came down here to see for myself and you saw what happened after that."

The whispering started again then, and Jim's head snapped automatically around to where he could hear and identify the source. Where....? He knew his jaw dropped open as the realization hit him: it was Persis's voice he'd heard before, that he hadn't taken time to identify, and now the Persis whisper, the--focusing his hearing just a bit more--Persis *hearbeat* were all coming from the woman lying under his dining room table.

Persis? What the...? Emby. Em. Bee. M. B. Morag Blanche. Oh shit....

_"...didn'twanttohurtdidn'tneedtohurtPersisshewasscareddidn'tknwowhereshewasIcametofindoutIonlycametohelpIiddn'tmeantoscareBlairdidn'tmeantodidn'tmeanto..." _

Blair took a breath preparatory to speaking, but Jim's hand up stopped that. He pointed at the bundle of hair and limbs under the table, and when his roommate shrugged and shook his head in confusion, Jim mouthed slowly, "Persis."

His roommate's frown didn't clear up until the third time Jim mouthed it, but he was afraid to speak out loud for fear of startling Mora--Persis again. Blair's blue eyes grew round with sudden comprehension, then he squatted beside the table.

"Persis?"

She jerked, shuddered, and the whispering stopped.

Blair tried again.

"Persis, Jim didn't mean to scare you. He didn't realize it was you, and he thought someone was trying to hurt me."

 

No response, but the tangle of limbs underneath the table seemed to relax just a little bit.

Jim knelt on one knee beside Blair.

"Persis? I'm sorry, I didn't realize..." What? That a five-year-old girl inhabited the body of Morag, along with the twenty-seven-year-old woman, and--sudden realization hit Jim, and he found Blair staring at him with the same wide-eyed comprehension--whomever that was in the schoolyard the other night. Big man, she'd called him "big man" when he walked up, and Jim, great big detective that he was, hadn't even caught it. Sheena, that was the name Persis had given the other girl, Sheena who was angry and didn't want help and didn't trust anyone.

How the hell was he supposed to know they were all living in the same body? Movement under the table, and when Jim looked back at the person there, he caught his breath. The eyes weren't Morag's, they were the same ones that had told him about the tea party with her mother for her birthday. My God, that had been Persis, and he'd missed that one too. According to his roommate, Morag had been a small child when her mother died. That birthday party was probably the last good time she'd had with her mother.

Her mother...oh my God, Persis's mother...

Before Jim could follow that thought through, Blair extended a hand to Persis/Morag, and the little girl/woman looked at him for a moment before scuttling out and nearly knocking Blair over as she tried to curl up in his lap, sobbing and hiccupping all over again. They sat on the floor, Blair rocking her gently and making shushing, soothing noises. They were still sitting like that when Jim came back downstairs, having put his gun away and donned some sweats. At that point Mora--Persis was relaxed enough that she allowed Blair up off the floor and back over to the couch. Once there, she curled up in a ball against his side, pointedly ignoring Jim, until he rescued the Eeyore hat from the floor and, sitting on the coffee table in front of his partner and the distraught --child? Woman?--held it out to her.

Face still pressed against his roommate's shoulder, one grey eye glared balefully at him from the mess of hair and tears and snot. After a second's perusal he must have passed muster somehow, because a hand shot out and grabbed the hat, clutching it to her chest. Turning her head enough that both eyes were visible, the glare Persis leveled at the Sentinel was loaded with resentment and wounded pride as only a five-year-old child's could be. She sniffled once more, loudly, then declared indignantly, in a broad Southern drawl, "Ah thought yew *wanted* to meet me."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

_"These fragments have I shored against my ruins."_

 

_\-- T.S. Eliot_

 

 

 

Letting his roommate handle the conversation with Persis for now, Jim watched from the love seat. Expanding his senses, he almost zoned as he tried to understand what had taken place before him. Other than looks and the immutable scent of bubble gum lip gloss, it was *_not_* Morag who sat on the couch next to Blair; everything was different, everything. The way she moved, held her head, her mannerisms as she talked, the expression in her eyes--all had shifted, become those of a stranger. The heartbeat was the same one he'd heard over the phone, not Morag's, not at all. Her respiration was different; even Morag's scent had changed. It was younger, somehow; he didn't know how to explain it. The entire thing was nothing short of staggering. His own stupefaction was mirrored in Blair's eyes whenever their gazes met.

"Yew wuz supposed to help Emby. Keep her from hurtin' again!" Cross-legged on the couch beside Blair, who kept one arm reassuringly around her shoulders, Persis was managing to glare at both men.

Jim turned down his senses, and traded helpless looks with his roommate for the umpteenth time in the last half hour.

"Persis, we tried, we just didn't know ---" Blair tried to explain, again.

"She *called* you, an' you weren't there, or here or anywhar you'd said you'd be! She even called you, big man, and no one answered," the small voice accused.

Called? Emby--Morag--had called them...when?

"This afternoon? She called this afternoon?" Sandburg asked, flicking a guilty glance at Jim.

"What was she supposed to do? She hurt and you said 'call' and then you weren't there!" Indignant didn't even begin to describe Persis's attitude. She acted like a queen faced with two very recalcitrant subjects.

Damn. Morag must have tried to call them when her hearing started bothering her. Where had he been? Probably in Simon's office, or on his way over to the University to get Blair. Why hadn't she used his cell phone then? Tabling that query for one that mattered, Jim took a deep breath, and decided enough was enough.

"Persis, did you see the man today? The one following Emby? Do you know who sent the flowers?" Jim kept his voice gentle, soft, but firm.

She shook her head adamantly.

"That dip Morag answered the door. She don't know nuthin' 'bout nuthin'. And I didn' have nuthin' to do with those flowers." Chin held high, eyes narrowed, Persis wasn't just angry, she was positively arrogant.

Blair's eyes were telegraphing warnings Jim didn't need. What did the man think he was gonna do, turn the Ellison lasers on the child? Child. A twenty-seven-year-old woman sat in front of him, and yet he had no problem defining her as a child. She didn't just act childish, she *was* a child. Jim shook that thought off, and tried another tack. They needed information, and they needed it fast. Unfortunate as it was for her, Morag was the break he'd needed in the case and he wasn't going to *not* ask for her help.

"Persis, can you help us identify the man who's following Morag? If we know what he looks li--"

"It's all their fault he's followin' Emby in the first place." Petulantly, this time, her bottom lip actually protruding when she finished her statement.

"Whose fault is it, Persis? Why is he here?" Jim ignored the incredulous look Blair shot him. He was tired of playing games with this child.

Persis literally swelled up with anger. Anger? What the--

"They did it, they did! He wouldn't have bothered us again; we promised and we was keepin' it until that idiot slapped him. Raht in front of Gawd and ever'body she did!"

Jim winced, and turned his hearing down a notch.

"Who hit him, Persis?" Coupled with the lethal glare he shot Jim, Blair's quiet query meant he was taking over the interrogation. Jim sat back and let him have at it.

Eyes flickering over the loft beyond them, Persis suddenly shivered.

"Sheena did, dumb shit that she is."

"When?" Blair could be persistent, when he wanted to.

Persis wiggled in place, refusing to meet their gaze. Her lower lip protruded again, and when she finally mumbled her answer both men had to lean in closer to hear.

"Daddy's fun'ral. It wouldna killed her to let him hug her, it would have kept Emby safe, but she had to do it. I knew he'd come after that."

"Who? Persis, who was it?" Blair's voice cracked. God, to be so close to the answers they needed and have a recalcitrant child holding all the cards...

"I don' know his name. Nobody does, nobody but Emby. She won't tell, she don't want him to find us like he did after the funeral. And it was all Sheena's fault," Persis shrilled. If she'd been standing, she'd have stamped her foot.

"*What* was all Sheena's fault?" Blair insisted, reaching for Persis's hand and pulling her toward him gently.

She wouldn't meet their gaze again, burying her face in Blair's shoulder.

"Ask Sheena," she mumbled. Blair blew his breath out in a loud sigh, looking away from them both though he still held Persis close. His stomach was probably tied in at least as many knots as Jim's, if not more. Jim shifted in his chair, hand going up to rub his forehead before he took a deep breath.

"Pers--"

Jim stopped in mid-word, his attention snagged by the increasingly familiar sensation of all the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. Persis went rigid, then sat up, grabbing Blair's arm and yanking it off her shoulders.

"Get your hands off me, asshole!" She pushed herself away from Sandburg, sliding her feet out from under her to stand up, hands clenched and glaring at them both before sidling away down the couch.

No, not Persis: Sheena. The grey eyes glaring down at Jim were angry, wild--desperate, just like they had been at the park. He concentrated on returning her gaze, stare for cold stare, forcing himself not to withdraw from the confrontation. What was it about Sheena that had him pulling back every time he ran into her? Instinctively, Jim extended his senses. Again, the transformation was absolute. Even with the white noise generators in the other room, he could hear Per--Sheena's heartbeat, it's sussurating murmur as distinctive as it had been the other night in the schoolyard. Her scent had changed again, subtly. Where Persis was childlike, all awkward motion, and Morag all control, no wasted energy or movement, Sheena fairly vibrated. Energy, emotion, anger--shoot, there wasn't enough sage in Cascade to counter the negative energy radiating from her as she stood, one foot tapping on the floor and her arms crossed tightly against her chest.

Blair, without Jim's sensory advantage, was momentarily confused, but as Sheena turned her glare on him, Jim saw the realization dawn.

"Whoa, hey, I wasn't doing anything. Sheena."

She didn't deny the name, just sneered at Blair, ignoring Jim.

"Yeah, right. Just like you weren't doing anything the last time you put your arms around Morag."

Blair flinched, and Jim did too. If she could have seen Blair in the alley yesterday, she would have known better. He closed his eyes, briefly, then spoke just as Jim took breath to defend his friend.

"Sheena, that wasn't the only reason I asked Morag out." Blair's gaze was steady, holding those ash-grey eyes. Looked like he'd dealt with his guilt the other day--maybe what Jim had said had helped him out a bit. In front of him, Sheena's eyes were doing her Viewmaster impression again, clicking and shifting before the emotions and reactions could be identified.

"Oh, so that's why you never asked her out again after that night." Cold, mocking, utterly ruthless, that voice--and a world of pain buried behind it. Blair flinched again, but for his own discomfort or for the misery laced through Sheena's voice, Jim wasn't sure. Sheena spoke before either of them could form a rebuttal.

"You want to tell me what the fuck I'm doing in your apartment? Or, is *that* the reason I'm here? Couple of grown up men couldn't get laid on their own so you decided to pick up someone defenseless?"

Open-mouthed, Jim just stared at her, his peripheral vision confirming Sandburg's goggle-eyed speechlessness as well. My God, what did she think they were? Abruptly there was a picture in Jim's memory, of Morag, battered and beaten...and raped. Twice, now, since what little Persis had told them seemed to confirm Blair's theory. Jim hadn't been able to dig up any local records that would prove it, but his gut told him he didn't need anyone else's report, probably the same way Blair's gut had figured it out in the first place. If Morag had no memory of being attacked, it looked like Sheena remembered it all too well--and still expected the worst. Blair had only given her more ammunition with his seduction attempt -- no matter that he'd realized his mistake and backed off immediately. In Sheena's eyes the damage was done.

Surprisingly enough, Jim was the one who found his voice first.

"You zoned." That merited him another glare, but the Viewmaster couldn't shift her surprise aside fast enough for Sentinel sight to miss it. She frowned at him, but Jim went on. "Blair couldn't bring you out of it, so we brought you here to give you time to come out of it on your own."

No reaction for a moment. Sheena wouldn't look at him. Uncrossing her arms, she bent slightly at the waist and one hand went down to tug at her skirt. She fingered the torn seam mutely, before turning on him again.

"You didn't do this?" Sharp, hard, straight shot at him. This time Blair found his voice first.

"Good god, Sheena, what do you think we are?" Unaware he was repeating Jim's own shocked thought, Blair's voice cracked on the last word, and he stared, openmouthed again, at her.

"Men," she retorted, and there wasn't anything either one of them could say to that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, Jim tried to remember anything he'd heard or read about multiple personalities. They needed to get this conversation back on the track it had been on with Persis, and they needed to get it there now. Unfortunately, most of what Jim knew about Multiple Personality Disorder came from a couple of bad movies and channel surfing through a few too many daytime talk shows on his days off. Neither the military nor the Academy had prepared him for this--no courses offered in Conversations with Multiple Personalities 101. Sandburg had an edge, at least he had a minor in psychology, but that probably didn't leave him a whole lot more qualified than Jim. Not that his roommate had much to offer right now, with his mouth wide open and obviously floundering for something to say. Sandburg speechless was not an awe-inspiring sight.

"You did that, when you hid in the closet. That's where we found you this afternoon." Jim spoke calmly, trying to convey that he accepted her question as reasonable, that he understood Sheena might not know what Morag or Persis had done.

"Hid in the clos---" Grey eyes flicked from him to his roommate, and then Sheena stood, stalking over to stare out the windows of the loft into the abyss of night outside. Stiff, rigid, and very much afraid, he realized, confirming the overwhelming scent of fear with a small sniff. Damn, what should they do now? His gaze locked with Sandburg's, and with a shrug and eloquent gesture of open hands, he passed the ball neatly to his roommate. Sandburg's court, Sandburg's turn. Up and at 'em, buddy. Get the information that will nail this guy.

Blair shook his head and rolled his eyes before standing up. He moved slowly over to stand behind Sheena, arms at his sides, leaving a good two feet between them when he stopped.

"Sheena...."

She flinched bodily, and the reflection in the window closed her eyes briefly before swirling angrily to face Blair.

"What the fuck do you want from me? Why won't you leave me alone?"

Damn, hope she didn't wake the neighbors shouting like that.

One hand went out, and Blair took a short step closer to Sheena.

"We're trying help you." Deep breath, and a glance at Jim, but for now Jim was more than willing to let Sandburg run the show. "Sheena, the man who attacked yo--"

"I don't have anything to say to you." She turned back to the window, leaning her forehead against it and drumming her fingers lightly on the glass.

"Sheena, please, if you can tell us who he is... You know, even if you could just give us an idea what he looked like, it would help. Police sketch artists are great, man, they can draw a picture..."

His voice trailed off as Sheena shuddered. Her hand went flat on the window before curling into a fist and jerking back. She knocked it against the glass twice, then dropped it to her side as she inched away from Blair. Jim was certain she would have crawled right into the wall to escape them, if that were possible. There wasn't any doubt she did not want to talk to a sketch artist. Blair looked at Jim, hands going out and his eyes pleading for help. Jim stood, moving over to stand a few feet behind his roommate.

"Who was the man you slapped at your father's funeral? Why was he there?"

Well, at least she acknowledged him, even if it was just to glare daggers at him from where she leaned against the wall.

"How the hell would I know? He didn't exactly introduce himself, just took what he wanted both times and ran. Just like any other man."

Damn. Blair turned away, swallowing hard. Jim took a deep breath. Sheena glared at him for a minute longer, then returned to staring out the window. It took Jim a few more seconds to come up with something else to say.

"Sheena, please, help us out here. The man is a murderer as well as a rapist; you're not the only one he's attacked. Help us for those other women, if not yourself."

She didn't even bother to lift her head from where it rested against the glass.

"Why? What's it to you? What does it matter how many sluts he took out? We all deserved it, didn't we? Asked for it?"

The window right in front of her muffled her voice, but her words came through loud and clear. Blair's jaw dropped open, and in one step he was right beside Sheena, attempting to look her in the eye. He grasped her elbow, and she didn't jerk it away.

"Mor--Sheena, you are not a slut! And, there's no way you *asked* for this! This man, he, he hurt you." Jim didn't blame Blair for not wanting to say it out loud, but Blair gulped, and swallowed, found the words and the courage to say them. His voice was low, compassionate. "Sheena, what happened to you wasn't your fault, you never asked to be beaten or raped. You sure as hell didn't ask for it to happen twice. Nobody deserves that, nobody! And it matters because it happened to you, it matters to Jim as a cop, and it matters to me because you're my friend. And it matters to both of us because it was *wrong.* He had *no* right to do that to you. It was wrong, wrong, *wrong,* for him to do what he did to you, and I--we--want to see him punished for it."

No answer from the statue staring out the window, but Blair wasn't done. He kept his face close to hers and, when Sheena risked one brief glance at him, tugged gently on her elbow. She looked out the window as Sandburg spoke again.

"I wish, God, I *wish* I could make it all go away, make it never have happened to you. I can't imagine how it feels to have lived through what you've survived, and I can't wish it away, but I can be here, I can be your friend, and we can make this guy pay for what he's done to you."

Beggar's ride, that what's this was. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and the woman standing at the window tonight wouldn't be broken and shattered into so many fragile pieces. Unbidden, the family picture, 5-year-old Morag smiling with her parents, came to mind. Jim closed his eyes, and sighed. The ugly truth was that a whole lot of wishes were going begging right now.

A tiny shudder was the only reaction to Blair's speech from Sheena, then what sounded like a sob, half swallowed. She turned her head away from Blair and his compassion, refused to look at him as she shifted and pulled her elbow from his grasp. But, she didn't run, and she didn't try to scratch his eyes out. Little things, but hey, they'd take what they could get in this case.

"Sheena, please." Blair stayed next to her. "Who is this guy?"

Twisting one strand of her around a finger, Sheena swallowed another sob as she inched further away from Blair.

"I don't know his name."

Well, hell, this was as informative as a kindergarten briefing. Damn, but he was tired of these games. If they were going to do what Blair had promised Sheena, they needed answers, and they needed them now.

"Why was he at your father's funeral? Is it the same guy that ordered the flowers?"

"Jim!" Blair hissed, glaring daggers at the larger man, but Jim ignored him. It was hard to tell who was more surprised when his question rated an answer from their guest.

"Maybe. All I know is he was at the funeral, and he's the same asshole that gave Persis that picture for Christmas. Ten years ago, and Emby still won't get rid of it, no matter how many times we ask her to."

Sandburg was gonna look ridiculous if his face froze that way, with his eyes and his mouth all wide open. Jim shared his incredulity, though, after taking a second to decide she must be referring to the garish pansy print sitting on the floor behind the stereo. God, who *was* this creep? And *why* was he targeting Morag?

Blair shifted fractionally closer to Sheena, one hand tentatively touching her arm.

"Wait a minute. You're telling us the same guy that attacked you gave Persis that picture?"

She favored Sandburg with one disgusted look over her shoulder.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Why?" Blair was trying hard to get his mind around this one. Jim wasn't sure he wanted to try.

A shrug was the only response. Once again pulling away from Blair, Sheena stood back from the window, still twisting a long strand of hair around one finger as she stared out into the night.

"You'll have to ask Persis that. She *is* who you've been talking to, isn't she?" Bitterness and bravado. Lots of it, loads of both, and she still couldn't mask the resentment and fear in her voice. Well, shit. Nothing like internal politics to screw up a good investigation--except this put a whole new slant on the term 'infighting.'

"She's called a few times, asking for help. She wanted help for you that night we tried to help you with your hearing," Blair explained, quiet and reasonable.

Sheena snorted.

"That's Persis, always covering her ass. Never mind who else gets left out to dry."

"What do you mean?" Blair shot back. Jim wanted to know the answer to that one, too.

Just as he had in the schoolyard two nights ago, Blair stood his ground when Sheena turned on him. Head down, chin thrust forward, hands clenched at her sides, she ground out the words, spitting each one of them at Sandburg, including Jim with one angry, raking glance.

"Look, Sherlock, Persis is the idiot who opened the door in the first place. She actually believed it when he said he wouldn't hurt her again! In spite of her so-called help since then, * I've* taken care of Emby, and Morag, just like I said I would. We *don't* need your help! Or your protection!"

Jim knew Blair's shock was reflected on his own face. Dammit! Why did they have to pry everything concerning this case out of this woman--women?

"We can do more than protect you. We can make sure this guy can't hurt you or anybody else again." Jim put all his authority as Sentinel of the Great City into that promise. "Why did she open the door?"

Sheena sighed, and turned toward him. The look in her eyes was bleak, icy, forlorn -- a child lost in a blizzard of terror and shame, utterly and absolutely alone with no hope of rescue.

"I don't know. Little bitch never would say why. That's why you can't protect us. No one can. No one ever did before, why would it be any different now?" She turned away, back to the window, but not before he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "We don't need your protection. Find someone who does."

"Look, we're not like your father. We will protect you." Blair added his own promise to Jim's. "You can trust us."

"Please, just leave my father out of this." The soft plea was barely audible, shocking as it was. Not so much that she said it, but how she said it. Tired, weary, aching.

"Why?" No response. Jim stepped up, hating to ask this, but someone had to. "Sheena, your father...was he protecting this guy? Did he know the man who attacked you?"

"He wasn't protecting anyone."

Oh, God. Blair's eyes closed, and Jim stared out the windows for a minute. Silence reigned, the loft echoing with the quiet despair, the undertones resonating in that simple statement.

"Sheena." Jim's voice was soft, compassionate. What else could he be? Trouble was, they needed information, information that someone rattling around in the body before him had to have. Sheena didn't move, and Jim pushed a little harder. "Who was the man at your father's funeral? How did he know about the sound room in the basement?"

"Everyone who'd ever been to our house knew about that room. Daddy was so proud of it; he took such good care of that damn stereo, made damn sure it could be locked up and protected."

Unlike his daughter. Jim and Blair both heard it, she didn't have to say it. Blair's eyes were closed again, his lips moving soundlessly. Sandburg wasn't a religious man, Jim knew, but this was enough to send anyone begging to whatever God they believed in to make it better--or to demand why it had been allowed to happen in the first place.

Sheena wouldn't look at either one of them. Her heart rate was going through the roof, and she was sweating, shaking....and then, suddenly, she was in control again. Turning, she looked at both Jim and Blair with some of the same regal arrogance that Persis had displayed not twenty minutes ago.

"Look, as fascinating as you all seem to find this conversation, I'm tired, and my head hurts." She sighed, then shot a glare at Jim. "I'm not even going to bother asking if I can smoke here. If you feel you must protect me, can you at least get me something for this headache you're compounding and let me get some sleep?"

"Um, sure," Blair responded quickly, turning and heading for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

_*Coward.*_ Jim thought at his back. Not that he blamed his roommate. This case was turning into more of a nightmare everytime they turned around.

The silence grew as they waited for Blair. Jim and Sheena avoided each other's gaze, listening to the creak of the medicine cabinet and the rattle of the aspirin bottle. Water rushed into the sink, the sound echoing in the glass as Blair placed it under the stream. A minute later, Sandburg returned to the living room, holding the glass and the aspirin out as he came to a stop in front of Sheena. She didn't take either offering. Instead she stepped inside his outstretched arms and, threading her fingers quickly through his hair, pulled his lips against hers. The glass shattered on the floor as, pressing herself up against him, Sheena kissed Blair, hard.

Jim moved, but Blair was faster. His hands grabbed Sheena's and peeled her off his body. Stiffening as he held her out in front of him, those grey eyes returned his astonished gaze half in amusement, half daring him to finish what she'd started. It was taking Blair a minute to find his voice, and Sheena laughed, low and deep in her throat. Dropping her voice to a sultry whisper, she pushed herself towards Blair again, and purred, "I can give you everything you wanted that night, and more."

"Sheena, that is like *so* not going to happen--" Blair started, but she yanked free of his grasp and sneered, "What's the matter, Blair? Not interested in damaged goods?"

In spite of everything, Jim wanted to slap her, hard, just as hard as she'd tried to play his roommate. Fortunately, Blair was in the way.

"At the risk of being trite, real men don't treat their friends that way. I wouldn't do it to Morag, and I won't do it to you." Rolling her eyes, Sheena snorted her disbelief before turning away from Blair, towards Jim. Blair just looked at her, all calm patient reasonableness. "Morag is my friend, Sheena. And, whether you choose to believe it or not, you are too."

That hit, hit hard, right in the center of her being, same place Blair's compassion hit just moments before. Jim saw her shudder, saw the wounded look in her eyes before the Viewmaster could click it back to hard and angry. Arms folded tightly against her chest, Sheena ignored them both, staring at a point somewhere just to the right and above Jim's shoulder. He started to move, to get a broom, but Blair was already heading back toward the kitchen.

Jim's head whipped around when he felt the displaced air, to find Sheena standing in front of him--*right* in front of him. Head cocked to one side, lips parted in what any other time would have been a seductive smile, she reached out and softly traced the line of one bicep beneath his t-shirt.

"I don't suppose you take Blair's rejects." Her eyes locked with his as she brought both hands up to caress his chest. Thumbs circling lightly over his pectorals, she looked Jim up and down, obviously approving of what she saw. Jim was aware of Blair staring at them from across the room. Hands stilling, Sheena licked her lips, then shrugged slightly with one shoulder, leaning into him, her body almost but not quite touching his. "That's too bad," she whispered. "You military types really know how to make a girl scream. Must be that wonderful rigidity you have."

Jim gently captured her hands, waiting until those eyes met his.

"You're not a reject, Sheena."

She froze, the Viewmaster unable to shift this reaction aside. Jim watched as this bullet went right through the ice she'd surrounded her heart with, watched the white frosted panes of protection, weakened already, shatter, one by one, layer by layer, until his words lay in her heart, next to Sandburg's. Her eyes snapped shut and she jerked her hands from his just before the familiar prickle came across Jim's neck and shoulders. Someone gasped, then, reaching out blindly and Jim barely had time to catch her as she collapsed, lowering her gently to the floor. Sandburg was there, broom falling on the floor beside them. They waited an impossibly long moment for those eyes to open, to see who was here now. Then her eyelids fluttered, and she was there. No longer cool, not so aloof, but still...Morag. Helping her to sit up, her feet tucked demurely to one side, Jim kept a hand on her elbow, steadying her. Eyes flicking nervously from one to the other of them, she clutched at Blair as he reached for her other arm.

She was trembling, shaking, and, closing her eyes, she swallowed, then whispered, "Oh, God, what kind of a fool have I made of myself this time?"

Blair brushed the hair back from her face, gently.

"You're not a fool, Morag, you're *not* a fool," he whispered vehemently, pulling her into an embrace. Still shivering, Morag huddled against him as he rocked her slowly. Jim gave them a moment, then touched Morag's shoulder gently.

"I think we should all get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning."

Later this morning actually, the kitchen clock read 3:00 a.m. as they helped Morag stand, Blair's arm still around her. Jim bent down for the broom, keeping an eye on the pair as they headed for Blair's room. Morag leaned heavily against his roommate; Jim wasn't sure if it was for actual or moral support. At the door she stopped, one hand reaching out to grasp the door jamb.

"Morag?" Blair was solicitious, shooting a concerned gaze back at Jim. Jim frowned. He hadn't felt anything that indicated a change in personality. Morag shuddered, then faced Blair before turning to meet Jim's gaze over her shoulder. The ice was gone, shattered in the light of the night's revelations. Now her eyes were ash grey, ashes whirling in the storm. _Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. _She closed her eyes briefly, then met Jim's gaze again.

"Martha." Her voice was low and rough. For a minute, he wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

"What?" Blair said it for both of them, and her gaze swung back to him.

Morag stared at Blair for a long moment. Sandburg's arm tightened around her, and she favored him with a ghostly smile. Taking a deep breath, her eyes closed, and then she met his gaze, including Jim with a glance.

"Sheena says to tell you...he called her Martha."


	9. Chapter 9

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_"'I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, Sir,' said Alice, 'because I'm not myself, you see.'"_

 

_\---Lewis Carroll_

 

Part 9

 

Blair woke at the 'snick' of a door closing, but he just lay there, comfortable in his cocoon of covers. The air about his face was warm already; Jim had been up long enough to get a fire going. Shifting, Blair curled in on himself and settled further into his warm nest. The shower was running, and he sluggishly decided the few extra moments of warmth were worth the abbreviated wash he'd have to take when it came his turn. Stretching and wiggling as his brain refused to give in to the drowsy comfort in which his body was luxuriating, Blair concluded it was nice to see the sun again in the mornings. The days of waking up in the dark and coming home from work in the dark were gone, though the long wobble toward the sun and the halcyon days of summer twilight wasn't complete yet. Oh well, a few extra hours of dark in the winter were definitely worth those wonderful extended evenings, when the sun didn't set until after 9 o'clock. He rolled over, seeking a more comfortable spot as his dozy ruminations continued.

Well, okay, not that he'd call the floor beside the couch *un*comfortable, it just wasn't quite what he'd had in mind when he flopped over on his back. At least he'd missed the coffee table on the way down, though. He really ought to be grateful for small favors. The only drawback to the situation was that the living room floor was cold. Darn cold. Down right drafty, as a matter of fact. Blinking slowly at the ceiling beams above him, Blair tried to recall just why he had slept on the couch--an attempt hindered by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the kitchen. Some deity please bless his roommate, the man had put coffee on *before* getting in the shower.

Indulging in a huge yawn, Blair tilted his head back. The sky outside the wall of windows was pale turquoise washed with gold above a thick, cottony blanket of ash-colored fog. Great. Just great. He watched the fog rise disgustedly. He *so* did not need another depressing day like yesterday. Yesterday...Last night...Last night! Brain and body finally reached the same waking wavelength, and Blair sat up abruptly.

"Shit!" Blair exclaimed softly, shooting a cautious glance toward the closed doors of his room as one hand went to his head where it had connected with the coffee table. Kicking free of the comforter that had flowed with him off the couch, he stood, scanning the loft for his backpack. There, by the door where he'd dumped it beside Morag's yesterday. Only now there was no sign of Morag's pack, just his shoes placed neatly at the side of his own scuffed up bag. Blair grinned. Jim must have taken his shoes off of him last night, after he fell asleep in the chair. The Sentinel had probably considered tucking in his wayward roommate a fair exchange for escaping the nightly installment of Star Trek.

Though in light of what came later, Jim probably would have happily settled for Star Trek in the first place.

Okay, into the kitchen for coffee, grab his pack, then back to the couch. Wrap the comforter around his shoulders because in spite of the fire crackling softly there was still that cold draft from somewhere. Hopefully Morag would sleep for a while longer while he surfed for some information. Persis's Eeyore hat still sat on top of the coffee table, and Blair moved it carefully aside before setting his computer down. Opening his laptop, he quickly connected the phone line, then left his warm spot long enough to string the line over and plug the modem in beside the kitchen phone. He remembered to set a chair across the cord in the hall. Jim would not be happy if someone--namely him--tripped over it first thing in the morning. Back at the couch, wrapped in his comforter again, Blair tucked his feet up under him and drank gratefully from the steaming mug as he waited for the laptop to boot up.

He'd read up on Multiple Personality Disorder after David Lash, after his own nightmare with the serial killer was averted, so he knew a little bit about this. The official diagnosis was now "Dissociative Identity Disorder." DID was the response of creative and resilient minds to a world that made no sense, a reality that would destroy them if they did not flee. It was a fine and brilliant madness--not truly madness at all, not until the system caved in on itself, until the infighting screwed up the protection racket that had preserved the sanity of a terrified child. Truth was, David Lash was an aberration. Children who dealt with trauma by dissociating usually came out better in the long run than the ones who couldn't push the trauma away, those who couldn't insulate themselves from the horror in which they walked. Adults repressed or went insane, sometimes both. Children who ran away inside themselves usually lived to play another day.

Shuddering, he shoved aside the memories of David Lash in his long brown wig, "being" Blair, screaming in tandem with Blair's own cries for help. Unlike Lash, Morag wasn't victimizing anyone; she'd been victimized enough for any number of people.

The computer screen finally came up, and he logged onto the Internet. Grabbing his glasses from the coffee table, Blair sorted quickly through the websites that his search called up. He filled one page in his notebook and half of another with notes from the most promising ones before Jim shut off the shower. Wishing belatedly for his printer, sitting uselessly on his desk in his bedroom, Blair scrolled down the page, found another pertinent section of the website, and started writing again, trying not to press too hard on the screen of his laptop as he kept his place on the page with a finger. A blast of steam accompanied his roommate out of the bathroom. Pausing only to push his glasses further up his nose, Blair kept writing.

"Did you open a window?" Jim's voice shot through the early morning stillness, and Blair jumped. Looking over his shoulder at his roommate, Blair frowned. Come to think of it, that draft was pretty strong.

"No, I didn't."

Bare-chested, wearing only a pair of sweats, Jim swung around. His feet made no sound on the floor of the loft as he took two steps over to the doors to Blair's room. Standing there, he stared at his feet for a moment before looking over at his Guide.

Blair's stomach dropped, just like it had on the parachute drop when he was fourteen, when he'd foolishly listened to the friends who took him to Six Flags for the day.

"Nooo..." It was half plea, half moan, and he was up and over the back of the couch. Jim barely got his feet out of the way before Blair was standing in the same spot, knocking at the bedroom door and calling Morag's name. No answer, and he flung the door open.

It was rather silly, some part of his mind observed, for the two of them to stand there and gawk at the empty room this way. White noise generators hissing, his bed unmade, the fire escape door stood partially open, the cool morning air flowing through it into the warmer air of the loft.

"Damn!" Jim disappeared momentarily, and that same shocked part of Blair's mind knew he'd gone to get dressed and find his gun, though what good a gun would do against an unarmed grad student was debatable. The rest of him, including his pounding heart, knew if their perp had been watching, if he'd seen Morag leaving here, she was in deep trouble. The gun wouldn't be any use then either.

Blair's feet decided not to wait for Jim. Pelting down the fire escape, he swore. Why hadn't he realized the closing door he'd woken up to hadn't been Jim going into the bathroom, but Morag closing the door to his room behind her? She'd stepped out long enough to claim her pack and then run--someone had anyway. Sheena? Persis? Morag? No telling who or why, not now.

Helplessly, Blair stood in the alley behind the loft, shifting from one cold foot to the other as he waited for Jim to join him. He couldn't tell which way Morag had gone; that was the Sentinel's job. Then Jim was beside him, listening, sniffing...Blair followed as the Sentinel suddenly bolted down the alley. Four blocks later Blair couldn't ignore the protest of his bare feet any longer. He limped along half a block behind Jim, cursing the cold concrete, the icy pavement and all the little stones and debris he'd stepped on. The sight of Jim kneeling at the curb half a block down Morrison Ave from Prospect Street banished those complaints forever. His friend held Morag's Piglet doll, her backpack at his feet, ripped open and the contents spilled out across the sidewalk and into the street.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Tattered streamers of fog clung to the tops of the evergreens, wispy wreaths reaching from tree to tree on either side of the highway as Jim drove. Above, there wasn't any way to tell where the fog ended and the sky began, hardly any evidence the sun existed at all, except for the gray light Jim drove through. On the other side of the pick up, red shirt incongruously bright against the soft colors of the day, Sandburg stared out the window. It was odd to see him like that, Morag's battered Piglet doll in his lap, his hands still, apparently run dry of words for the moment. Jim knew the younger man was trying to pick his way through the misty landscape of Morag's mind, figure out why--and who--had run from their protection this morning. Why, indeed? Blair was angry, frustrated, and scared for Morag. And he had every right to be.

"Chief..."

The pickup rocked slightly as Sandburg shifted in his seat, and Jim glanced at his partner. Blair turned his head, stared balefully at the older man for a moment before he held one hand up, palm out.

"You know, Jim, I am like *so* not in the mood for your 'let the cops do their job' speech right now. So let's just not even go there, okay?"

Jim swallowed a retort. Damn, he'd walked right into that one. Okay, find a different tack. One hand rubbing his forehead, the Sentinel listened to the faint whump of the wheels on the sections of the concrete highway as he watched the mile markers. He concentrated on calculating how much farther until their turnoff, trying not to zone on either the diffuse greyness of the day or the memories he kept playing over and over. What had they done wrong? How had the fragile trust they had established last night with Sheena been so quickly shattered? Damn it, they'd passed her test, both of them, and still she'd run. * If* it was her. Jim sighed, slowing down and hitting the turn signal as his exit came up.

"Blair, look, you did everything you could do. No one had been in her apartment, and they'll notify Simon if she shows up at the university. We don't know for sure that anyone's grabbed her--"

"Oh, that's a crock, Jim and you know it. Where else could she be? Why the hell was her stuff all over the street?" Blair lifted the Piglet doll by the neck and shook it at Jim. "I know enough to know she'll keep all her important stuff with her, man, to help her know who and where she is. She'd never go off without it, and there's no way she'd ever leave it all strewn all over the road!" Blair stared at the doll for a minute before dropping it on the seat beside him. Staring out the window again, he shook his head. "You and I both know she isn't going to show up at the University, Jim. Hell, she isn't going to show up anywhere except dead in the city limits of Cascade Monday morning. I don't know about you, but seems to me that's gonna be a really shitty way to start my week."

"But that also means we have time to find her, Chief. Look, this guy's stuck to the same MO for almost 20 years now. He won't change it at this late date." Maybe Jim spent all his own confidence on those words because by the time Sandburg nodded, accepting his statement, Jim wasn't certain himself their man would cooperate. Heaven help Morag then, because Cascade P.D. sure didn't have a clue.

"Shit, Jim, I know that. I just can't figure out why she left. Dammit, I thought we were getting somewhere, I thought at least Persis or Sheena trusted us." Shaking his head again, Blair tapped one hand nervously on the door next to him. "Obviously we didn't get as far as we thought we did. Hell, I don't know, Morag may have decided she couldn't face up to us knowing her secret. I don't know, I just don't know."

And not knowing was eating his friend alive inside.

"Maybe it wasn't her. And maybe that's why whoever it was did leave. Because we were getting somewhere." Jim didn't try to explain why anyone would be more threatened by friends trying to help than a serial rapist and murderer. That one he really wasn't sure he wanted to figure out. "How much control would Morag herself have in a situation like this?"

Blair sighed, chewed on his lip for a minute.

"I don't really know. It depends on how the system works, if she's truly the host personality, the main person that the others split from. She's obviously got some control, but if she's tired and stressed my guess is the others have more leeway at those times to run things."

Morag had definitely been tired and stressed last night. Definitely. Trouble was, much as they'd like to, they didn't need to know why Morag had run. What they needed right now was to know who their perp was, and how they could catch him before Morag became a victim for the third time. Jim had spent a large chunk of precious time this morning convincing Sandburg it would be better for him to accompany the detective up to Samish, to interview Detective Po, than to risk serious injury at Simon's hands by dogging the rest of Major Crime's efforts to find Morag. The APB was out, and once they'd checked all of Morag's hangouts, few as those were, there just wasn't much they could do except watch and wait--and pray their perp stuck to his schedule while Jim and Sandburg tried to piece together the few pieces of the puzzle they'd gained last night. Except in the light of day it didn't look like they'd actually gained much at all from their midnight conversation.

His foot settling back on the accelerator, Jim glanced at his watch. Just ahead was a small sign indicating another ten miles to Samish. Hopefully this trip would net something, anything that would help put the events of the last few days into perspective, something that would help them track this guy down before he killed again. Jim stared ahead, into the fog, wishing some answers would come to him. None were forthcoming, stubbornly avoiding him the way they had avoided him since he got up this morning.

Sandburg shook his head, then sighed and quietly watched the scenery roll by for a moment.

"There's just one thing that bothers me--"

"Just one thing?" Jim's grin faded when Sandburg ignored the jibe, frowning and shaking his head.

"All of the stuff I read said that Dissociative Identity Disorder happens in children, children exposed to severe trauma over a prolonged period of time. It's rare, extremely rare in adults, or teenagers. I guess it's harder to dissociate then, to push things away. Adults tend to repress things, not build whole new people to handle the situation."

Oh oh.... Jim wasn't sure he liked the sounds of this.

"What are you saying, that Persis, Sheena, they're not all the result of that first attack?"

Blair shook his head.

"Persis is about what, five? Morag's mother died when she was five or six."

"Maybe that's why, the trauma of losing a parent, especially in an accident, and if she was injured as well..."

Blair shook his head again. Careful, didn't need him getting car sick.

"No, that shouldn't cause this complete of a split, I mean, Persis is real, she's a person, not a fragment. There's more to this than that. Sheena makes sense, she obviously handled the rape and all that for Morag, but Persis, where did Persis come from?"

"You've got me, Chief. Figuring out what makes a woman tick, even a young one, is more than I've ever been able to do."

"Ha ha, Jim. Very funny."

Well, okay, so he wasn't George Burns. Course, it would help if Sandburg wasn't in such a bad mood. Couldn't blame a man for trying to cheer a friend up. He glanced at Sandburg, frowning again out the window of the pickup. Well, then again, today Sandburg could blame Mother Theresa for not feeding enough of the poor. Jim sighed. Good thing their destination was in sight.

Samish, Washington was so small it barely qualified as a wide spot in the road. On the left side of the street, a dozen or so narrow houses on tiny lots crowded into the three block long, one block wide area between the rocky beach and the highway. Several of the houses fronting the highway were businesses as well. Across the highway another two or three dozen homes enjoyed larger lots, dotted amongst the pine trees on the gently rolling hills. The businesses on the east side of the road were actual buildings, not just someone's living room.

Already slowed to meet the requisite 25 mph speed limit for the small collection of homes and businesses, Jim drove past the pint-sized grocery store and the ever present am/pm convenience store/gas station. So far the largest business in town seemed to be a weathered grey building on the inland side of the highway. Festooned with heavy ropes and brightly painted red and white life preservers, it boasted a sign that proclaimed "Barnacle Bob's--Best Bargains South of Bellingham" and squatted in a sea of grey statuary, gnomes and squirrels and seagulls mixed in with any number of other fauna.

"Okay, now explain to me just exactly why anyone would want a concrete seagull?" Blair complained.

Jim shook his head as he signaled briefly, then turned and parked the turquoise and white truck in an empty space across the street from Barnacle Bob's.

"Beats me, Chief."

Across from Barnacle Bob's stood three cramped Victorian homes, their bright pink and turquoise exteriors unable to hide their fading aristocracy. The front windows were adorned with signs that read "Lotions by Lucy" (which promised Lucy was a New Age Herbalist who could mix potions as well as lotions), and "Annie's Antiques" and "Tea Time Treasures." Just beyond the three painted ladies was another slightly larger building, square and plain, painted a more respectable shade of tan and proclaiming "Po's Paperback Exchange."

"What, the entire town has Alliterative Disorder?" Blair groused, as he joined Jim on the wooden boardwalk in front of the buildings. The only noises in the small town besides the pounding surf and cries of seagulls on the beach was the wind and an occasional car driving through, straight through.

"Academic snobbery doesn't become you, Chief," Jim retorted, and led the way to Po's store, their footsteps resonating on the wooden walk.

"Well, they don't need doorbells with this sidewalk, do they?"

Jim just rolled his eyes and sighed, holding the door for his roommate to precede him into the bookstore. About the only thing that would bring Blair out of this snit he'd wound himself up in was for Morag to turn up, safe and sound. In the meantime Jim could only hope the grad student wouldn't disgrace himself or Cascade P.D.


	10. Chapter 10

_"I kiss my wailing child and hold it to my breast,_

_And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me._

_Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea..."_

 

_\--- William Butler Yeats_

 

Anson Po was undeniably Polynesian. As tall as Jim, Po outweighed the Sentinel by at least 50 pounds. He had more hair, too. Thick, mostly black locks coupled with his relatively unwrinkled face belied the man's sixty plus years. Washed-out red shirt tucked into faded blue jeans, he stood behind a short counter in the back of the single room as Jim and Blair entered the store, the bell hanging from the door handle jangling behind them. As the door slid shut he looked up from the stack of paperbacks he was inspecting and cast a friendly smile their way--a smile that came readily and sat comfortably on his round face, lighting up the exotic, almond-shaped eyes. Blair cast a critical eye over the book selection as he walked through the store, pausing to pick up and inspect a couple of books before following Jim over to where Po was waiting, hands braced on top of the short counter.

"Good morning! Anything in particular I can help you find?" Po's voice was deep, resonate, the kind of voice actors practised for years to obtain.

Jim shot a glance at Blair before answering. Hands in his pockets as he waited beside Jim, Sandburg was in the process of replacing his morning-long scowl with a sickly smile. Satisfied that his partner would behave himself for the time being, Jim turned to the retired detective in front of him.

"Detective Po? I'm Detective Jim Ellison, with Cascade P.D.'s Major Crimes unit." Reaching into his coat for his badge wallet, Jim displayed the badge before he clasped the proffered hand briefly and firmly. He gestured towards Blair. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

Maybe it was the years of living as a minority in the mostly Caucasian Pacific NW, but the retired detective didn't bat an eye at Sandburg. He didn't look like he was trying to figure out what rock the kid crawled out from under, or whom he had bribed to get onto the police force. The extended hand and the smile were simply transferred from Jim to Sandburg, and the hand clasp was equally enthusiastic. Jim had a sudden vision of the Chopec shaman, Incacha, not as he'd seen him last, dying on the couch in the loft, but as he had been in Peru. Po had that same confidence, that same easy bearing of a man not just at peace with this world but the next as well.

Formalities taken care of, Po hooked his thumbs in the loops of his jeans, looking his visitors up and down as he spoke.

"My old stomping grounds. Why do I know you didn't drive out here just to peruse my book selection?"

Jim acknowledged that with a rueful smile and a brief nod as he replaced his badge inside his coat. Hands in his back pockets, Blair shifted beside him, blessedly keeping his silence for the time being.

"Actually, if you've got a few minutes, I--we," Jim included Blair with a brief gesture, "have a few questions we'd like to ask you about one of your old cases." Jim cast a glance around the store as he finished speaking. No one else there, nothing but books. Lots and lots of books, some shelved, more piled on chairs and on the floor. There was no shortage of reading material in this town. Good thing, since there seemed to be a shortage of just about everything else.

As Jim's gaze returned to the man he'd come to talk with, Po's smile faded. His thumbs came out of the belt loops, and his hands fell to his sides. Jim could see the stillness settle on the man, like an ocean becalmed. 'Still waters run deep,' the saying went, and from all appearances Anson Po ran deeper than most.

"The Gilbertson case," Po pronounced, and the room dimmed. Jim looked over his shoulder in spite of himself, but the momentary shadow passed as quickly as it came.

Hands still in his pockets, Blair shivered, then frowned at Po.

"How'd you know?"

Po shook his head.

"That case took me many years and many prayers to let go. Not to mention it's the only case I left open, unfinished. Always bothered me, that did. Had to shell out a couple grand of my own money to finally lay it to rest in my own mind." Po shook his head. "Not that what I found got me any closer to solving it."

"What did you find?" Jim asked. "Your report said you were certain Gilbertson was withholding information that could help the case."

Po shook his head again.

"I was wrong." He pinned Jim with fathomless eyes. "Why have you come for this now, after all these years?"

Why indeed? Too bad Jim hadn't found the answer to that question yet. Too bad he didn't know himself why he'd been chosen for this job. Was it Fate? Genetics? God? Truthfully, he didn't want to look too closely at any of those potential answers, he just wanted to find this creep before Morag became a victim again.

Maybe he should ask Sandburg for some tips on "centering" after all. Looking away from that deep regard for a moment, Jim took a deep breath. Meeting his gaze again, it only took a few moments to brief Po on the particulars of the case, leaving out anything current about Morag for now. Po's broad shoulders sagged as Jim spoke and it was his trun to stare off into the distance. When Jim finished speaking the only sound in the room was Blair's boots scuffing on the floor as the grad student fidgeted. Then, sighing, Po looked bleakly at them.

"Well, if I'd known all that, I don't know if I would have let it go when I did." He reached beneath the counter, keys jangling in his hand as he moved out around the wooden case. "I've got the stuff at home. Let me lock up here and we can go get it."

Po wove his bulk through the crowded store with the sure-footed grace of a cat. He locked the front door, hanging a "Back in 15 minutes" notice beneath the "OPEN" sign. Jim and Blair followed him to the back, then preceded him out into the narrow alley. Po locked that door as well, then led the way down the alley, gravel crunching beneath their feet as they walked. A couple of buildings further on, they turned the corner onto a paved road, and Po took a deep breath before speaking again.

"You know, what happened to that little girl, in her own home, it was terrible. Everyone wanted to nail the SOB. But, with no leads and no witness and her dad not cooperating, we could only do so much. I was already scheduled to retire at the end of the summer, and there wasn't any reason to stay on just for one case." He gestured back over his shoulder toward the store they'd just left. "Maeve and I had our eyes on this place already, but she let me take some of the money we'd set aside and do some investigating on my own once I retired." He shook his head sadly. "It didn't help solve the case, but it sure helped explain Mr. Gilbertson's reactions, why he wanted to just leave the whole incident behind him. Took me a while longer to let it go, but I knew it would come up someday, that justice would be served. I just hoped I'd be around when it did. That little girl deserved justice, more than what she got."

"Yeah, she does." Blair commented harshly. Po frowned at Blair, then looked at Jim when Blair refused to meet his gaze.

"Morag's a friend," Jim said, and after a sympathetic glance at Blair, Po nodded.

He led them around another corner, then down a narrow asphalt driveway bordered by a weathered gray board fence. Through a gate in that fence four Sentinel-sized steps took them across the tiny yard and up to a narrow, two-story house on the edge of the rocky beach. Its faded, brown shake siding contrasted with bright salmon pink trim. The back door Po opened led into a snug kitchen, brightly lit despite the greyness of the day. A slender, grey-haired woman looked up from the flowers she was arranging as the room filled with Jim and Po, Blair squeezing in behind them. Po made the introductions, presenting the woman as his wife, Maeve.

"Can you get us some coffee, Hon?" As he passed her, Po put one hand on her shoulder, and bent to whisper in her ear. Jim didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the room was so small he almost had no choice.

"They're here for that information on the Gilbertson case," he whispered. Even Sandburg didn't miss her sudden intake of breath at her husband's words. For a brief second, sun-faded blue eyes warily assessed Jim and Blair, seeking whatever threat they might pose her husband and his hard won peace of mind. Jim tried to smile reassuringly, but the woman's skepticism was palpable, her eyes flicking from him to Sandburg and back again. Then she busied herself putting coffee on while Po showed them into the deceptively spacious living room.

Facing the Sound, the southern and west walls were entirely windows. The day's grey light came in, reflected and refracted off the many light colored surfaces in the room, and left the room itself brighter than the day outside. Jim sat on the beige futon couch while Blair claimed an overstuffed armchair, upholstered in the same salmon color as the outer trim of the house. Nodding towards a flight of stairs that ran up the east side of the living room, Po excused himself, the boards creaking beneath him as he ascended to the loft above. The foot of the neatly made bed was all Jim could see from where he sat. Relaxing into the peaceful ambience of the room, Jim settled back against the couch and busied himself counting birds out on the Sound. Blair leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the overstuffed arms. Jim wasn't going to try to guess what the grad student was staring at in the immense vista of sky, ocean, and rocks spread before them.

The Sentinel counted 93 seagulls, 17 puffins, and a pod of grey whales before the scent of fresh coffee distracted him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Po." Jim took the cup she offered, careful of the delicate china. She returned his smile with a bright one of her own, a smile that must have had the young men swarming around her before she wed. Blair seconded his thanks, claiming his own cup with his only genuine smile of the day as Po came down the stairs.

At first Jim thought it was a large book, but a second look revealed a dark, delicately carved wooden box in the man's hand. Stopping beside his wife, Po's other hand rested gently on her shoulder. Maeve looked up at him, the concern in her expression obvious. Po met her gaze, squeezing her shoulder softly. Jim had been wrong, the smile she'd given him was but a pale imitation of the one she now gave her husband. *That* smile would have knocked the socks off every man for a one mile square radius. The look in Po's eyes as he returned the smile said he knew that, and was still amazed to be the lucky man to win this rare woman.

Then Maeve nodded, looking over to include Jim and Blair as she spoke.

"I'll go mind the store for a bit. Take your time." Her voice was a combination of ocean breezes and children playing in the sand.

"Thanks, Hon." Po brushed a kiss across her cheek as Jim and Blair said their good byes and then she was gone. In the stillness after Maeve's departure, Po stood quietly, staring at the box in his hand. Jim took another drink of his coffee. Kona blend, and fresh to boot. The clatter of Blair's cup and saucer on the coffee table was loud in the silence. Jim knew Blair was itching to grab the box, but he hoped the grad student would have the grace to wait until the information was offered. Cases like Morag's took a lot out of a man's soul, and for Po to have been willing to spend his own money, well, that just meant it was an even bigger hole he'd had to heal.

Finally, Po raised bleak eyes to meet their gazes, first Jim, then Sandburg. Shaking his head, he held the box out. Jim set his cup on the table next to Blair's, but Sandburg got to the box first, holding it in his lap, thumbs caressing the lid for a long moment. Both men looked up as Po spoke.

"That information... Maeve's dad was career military, and her brother too. They called in some favors to get a lot of it for me; the autopsy reports and stuff came from the military police at Camp LeJuene. It's probably not admissible in court, not with the channels I got it through. But you're welcome to take it all with you." His shrug was an eloquent transference of responsibility. Blair took a deep breath and opened the box just as Jim shifted to take it from him.

Paper. Piles and piles of it. With shaking hands, Blair held the top piece up, a photocopied newspaper clipping. "_**Mother, Daughter Missing for Three Days"**_ read the headline. Beneath that piece were more photocopies, newspaper articles detailing the exhaustive search by military and then state police for Martha and Morag Gilbertson. No leads, nothing, until three weeks later the tragic ending to the case: Morag, found sitting at the bottom of a dry gully on the rural outskirts of the base, holding her dead mother's hand.

There were no suspects in the case. Never had been.

Jim and Blair exchanged looks. Persis. Blair had said it took extended and repeated trauma to induce DID; looked like Po had found the genesis for Persis. Thumbing through them briefly, Sandburg handed the newspaper clippings off to Jim. The detective thumbed through them as well, but he'd save the thorough reading for later, at the police station. Po settled into a wooden rocker across from Blair as the grad student dug further into the box. This time he found autopsy reports, photos and all. Jim rubbed a hand over his face, as if that would erase the sight of another photo of Morag, much younger, much frailer, but bruised and battered again. His eyes met Sandburg's, and the grief in his roommate's gaze was inconsolable. Setting his own papers aside, Jim took the photo, more to get it away from Sandburg than anything else. Once he held it, something caught his eye.

Sandburg looked up from the report he was skimming at Jim's sharp breath.

"What?"

Silently, Jim pointed at the right side of Morag's face. The swelling wasn't as severe as when she was older, either that or she hadn't been hit as hard, or as many times. This time even non-Sentinel eyes could make out the cut on her right cheek, the check-mark shape almost half an inch tall and wide, high on the cheekbone and a finger's breadth from her hairline. The same scar she told Sandburg she'd gotten when her mother died.

This time it was Blair's indrawn breath sounding loudly in the stillness of the room, and Po looked back and forth at them in confusion.

"Damn, Jim, and look," Blair grabbed the newspaper clippings Jim had set on the table and searched through them. The one he waved at Jim a short second later said, "Base Kidnaping Ends in Tragedy."

"Morag and her mom disappeared on March 13 and turned up March 30, early morning. It's the same damn creep, it has to be!" Blair insisted.

Catching Po's eye, Jim explained, "In addition to the dates matching, all the women have that mark in the approximately the same place on their faces, and Morag had a cut here after she was attacked in her father's house. The guy must have quite the ring on his right hand." Jim brought his right hand up and half-demonstrated the blow that would have left the cut on so many battered faces. His hands full of photocopies, Sandburg's complexion was as pasty as the sky outside, anger warring now with grief. Po's gaze was glacial, until Jim looked in his eyes. There the anger was volcanic.

"Do me a favor?" Rough, Po's voice sounded as if he had just swallowed gravel. Grief would betray anyone that way.

Jim raised his eyebrows, and Sandburg looked up from his reading.

"Nail this son of a bitch."

"We'll get him." Or die trying, Jim didn't add. Don't think about the fact that Morag would die if they didn't find him soon.

Sandburg was doing a fair imitation of the famous Ellison jaw clenching routine as Jim handed the photo back to him. The younger man rubbed his fingers over it lightly before he placed it in the box, the healer trying to erase the brutal wounds. Only by now the wounds weren't physical, weren't so easily erased. They were internal fractures, heart and soul split asunder, and that was a bit more difficult to heal. Out of Jim's league for sure, though maybe not Sandburg's. Jim stood, holding his hand out to Po as Blair shut the lid on the box, his hands once more tracing the delicate carvings on the wood before he stood as well.

"Thank you for your time and the information." Jim put a hand on Blair's shoulder and gently pushed him toward the kitchen as Blair mumbled his own thanks.

Po nodded, and escorted them back through the house. There didn't seem to be much else to say. Just as they were stepping through the door, Blair stopped and looked back at Po.

"You said you knew we'd be coming for this." He lifted the box he clutched under one arm. "How?"

Po's smile was thin, and he looked off over the water for a few seconds before answering. The gulls cried loudly in the surf, and Jim shivered at the sound, reminding himself sternly that it was birds and not children screaming in the wind. Po took a deep breath, and then he looked straight at Blair.

"I prayed. A lot. I couldn't bear to leave this one undone. But even with what I had there, I couldn't seem to solve it. It was eating me alive inside, the look on that girl's face. Every time I went to sleep I dreamed about her, those dead eyes. Finally, I prayed. To my father's gods, to the God of my wife's fathers." His gesture was expansive, took in the sky, the sea, the birds on the wind, any and all gods who might hear and care about a small girl's torment. "The answer, it came to me in a dream. Justice would come, in time. Healing would come, in time. My part was to gather this information, to have it here when it was needed. The rest, the rest would be someone else's responsibility. I didn't know who or where, but I knew the time would come. After that night I could sleep again." He shrugged. "And now you're here." He lifted one open hand in their direction.

Jim didn't say anything, just stared out over the Sound again. This metaphysical stuff always made him a bit queasy. Then again, he was the one who decided the guy reminded him of Incacha. Sandburg stood still for a moment, waiting for Po's words to hit bottom in the depths of his own psyche. Then he nodded. Sure, the kid would accept that stuff; let him deal with it.

"We'll get the box back to you." Po's turn to nod, and they left. It was that simple. Turn and walk away with the weight of Morag's ever-increasing sorrow in that little box, back down the gravel street to the main road, back down the echoing boardwalk. Past Po's store, Maeve barely visible through the window behind a stack of books. Past the three painted ladies and out to the truck, and neither one of them had anything to say at all.

Then, one hand on the door handle, Blair looked at Jim, his eyes wide with shock.

"Jim, Morag's mother was named *Martha.* That's what Sheena said the guy called her when he..."

Oh, hell. Jim wrenched his door open without meeting Blair's gaze.

It was going to be a long drive back to Cascade.


	11. Chapter 11

_Little One! Oh, Little One!_

_I am searching everywhere!"_

_\---James Stephens_

 

Sandburg squeezed between the doors of the elevator before they opened completely, Po's carved box clutched tightly to his chest. Jim followed in his wake as, face set, Blair barely acknowledged the greetings that came his way from the rest of Major Crimes. Proceeding directly to the desk he'd finally been given after three years in the department, the box landed on the desktop at the same time Blair's butt hit his chair. Without pausing, he proceeded to unpack the box. Photocopied newspaper articles and Morag's medical report--read in the truck on the way back to Cascade--were piled off to the side; autopsy reports and other sundry pieces of information he had yet to peruse were stacked neatly in front of him. Closing the lid carefully, he pushed the wooden box aside and adjusted his glasses. Then Blair reached for the top piece of paper in the stack directly before him and began reading.

Jim watched his roommate as he shed his coat and dropped it over the back of his own chair. The kid was taking the news of what had happened to Morag and her mother hard--not that Jim blamed him. This kind of stuff was never easy to deal with; the fact that it was Sandburg's friend who had lived through such torment was even worse. And, they had yet to find anything in Po's box that would lead them to their man, or to Morag.

Well, there wasn't much he could do right now, except let Sandburg do what he did best: take in huge amounts of information and distill from it the few facts and details pertinent to the case. They'd all watched Blair do it, though no one understood how the kid--no matter he was almost 30 years old; Sandburg would still be "the kid" when he was 50--how the kid could so unerringly find the one or two small data bits that inevitably fell off the informational highway. While Blair worked on that, Jim needed to check in with Simon and see what had happened--if anything--in Cascade in the last few hours.

Simon was in his office, and, with another glance at Blair, Jim headed for the Captain's door. On second thought, he detoured to the break room. Sandburg acknowledged the cup of coffee and the doughnut he set on the desk a moment later with a nod and a murmured "thanks," but didn't reach for it, just kept reading. Okay, at least he had tried. Jim headed for Simon's office again.

Simon leaned back in his chair as Jim knocked once, then opened the door and stuck his head inside the office. Suitcoat on the rack and shirt sleeves rolled up, his pen tapping against the papers that covered his desk, Simon looked...flustered. As flapped as the relatively unflappable Captain ever got.

"Jim."

At that short acknowledgment, Jim stepped all the way into the office, closing the door behind him. The pen stopped its vibrating dance as Simon sighed.

"Please tell me your fishing trip to Samish came up with something."

Stepping over to lean against the table in front of Simon's desk, arms crossed against his chest, Jim shook his head and made a doubtful noise, but Simon hadn't finished venting yet.

"I hate to tell you this, but we've gotten nothing on this end, absolutely nothing. The fingerprints came back, nada. Nothing in the FBI database, nothing in the state database. We're still waiting on Gilbertson's military records. And, between Morag and an attempted kidnaping over at Sitka School, it's been a hell of a day around here."

Jim's eyebrows went up, and he frowned.

"Attempted?"

Simon nodded.

"Thankfully, yes. The little girl got away, ran to one of her teachers. But the mayor called, and he wants apprehending the suspect on that to take priority over everything else. I had to pull Henri and Rafe off Morag's case and put them to work on it. I'm just glad you were out of town, or we'd have had a fight on our hands to keep you on this case." Simon paused for breath and groaned, rubbing his chest with one hand. "Topping it all off, the Chinese food I ate for lunch has given me a killer case of heartburn."

Jim shook his head in sympathy, then took a breath. Before he could speak, the gold pen pointed at him, and like any good soldier, he waited to see what else his commander had to say.

"You know the victim and her teachers are crediting your safety lecture with saving that little girl's life?" Simon asked, softly. "She handled the situation perfectly, just like you told them to."

Dropping the pen, Simon gave Jim an enigmatic look then started digging in his desk.

Damn, did this mean he was going to get stuck with more kiddy duty? Jim was really not in the mood for this, not when there were real criminals out there to be caught. Wouldn't do him much good to complain, though, at least not today, not when the bottle of antacid Simon just came up with was almost empty. Simon knew his objections, knew his real worth to Cascade P.D. Jim would just have to trust his Captain to keep him from permanent assignment to the munchkin patrol.

Simon scowled at the dust that coated his desk when he shook the last three antacid tablets out. Replacing the lid and chucking the plastic bottle at his wastebasket, he looked up at Jim.

"Tell me about Samish. Did you get anything?"

The antacid disappeared down Simon's throat. Jim bit back a smile. No wonder the man got heartburn.

"You know, Simon, it helps if you chew before you swallow." The glare he received in return for that comment would have nailed lesser men to the wall. Jim let his smile show, just a little, before returning to the business at hand. "As for Samish, yes and no."

With a deep sigh, Simon stood, grabbing his coffee cup. Jim shook his head when the pot was held out towards him. The pot was shoved back into place under the brew basket, and Simon settled at his desk.

"Okay, explain yourself," he said, taking a sip of the coffee.

When Jim was done Simon's coffee was cold, but the Captain made no move to refill his cup. For a long moment he just stared at the plain white ceramic, then looked out his window to the bullpen where Sandburg sat hunched over his desk, still reading. Finally Simon met Jim's gaze.

"Damn." The expletive was followed by a heavy sigh, then Simon shook his head. "No wonder Sandburg looks like hell. You know, you wouldn't wish what was done to that poor girl on your worst enemy, once. But to have it happen twice? Talk about your negative karma."

Jim took a deep breath, to explain to Simon that actually this, this, this asshole--damn, he was running out of expletives to call the guy--actually the guy had victimized Morag three times, and if they didn't get a break soon it was going to be four. Just then Simon's door vibrated, and without waiting for an answer Henri barreled in. The way he was breathing the man must have run up all seven flights of stairs to Major Crimes, and Jim didn't think anyone's eyes could ever get that round. Simon took breath to reprimand him, but before he could say anything, Henri blurted, "Captain! We got a sighting on Sandburg's friend!"

"Where?"

"What?" was the response, in stereo.

Nodding at Jim, Henri waved the piece of paper in his hand as he tried to catch his breath. It took Jim a minute to make out the picture of Morag, taken from her Rainier student ID. They'd been using it all day to try and locate her. Through the open door behind Henri, Rafe led a group of people at a more sedate pace through the maze of desks towards Rhonda's station. Must be the folks from Sitka school. The father carried his little girl, about five or six, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her face buried in his shoulder. The mother was close beside them, one hand holding lightly to her daughter's foot. A man in a business suit that tried and failed miserably to look stylishly expensive and another woman in a functional blue dress followed close at their heels.

As the group reached Rhonda's desk, Jim stared out the door at the child's face now peering out at the bullpen over her father's back: long, dark hair, light blue eyes vivid in a pale face. He shivered as another child's face was superimposed over this one suddenly, a face he'd seen in a 20-year-old newspaper photo only hours ago.

The current picture waving in front of Jim's face brought his attention back to the bald detective. Henri was still talking, and with a shake of his head, Jim tuned back in to the conversation.

"...man grabbed Riley, the little girl, but she was screeching and hollering. The teacher said she was too far away; she couldn't get there in time, and the guy was forcing Riley into his car. Then some woman jumped out of his car. She starts clobbering on him, and he has to let go of the little girl long enough to protect himself from her. The whole time this woman's screaming at Riley to run, and as soon as the guy lets her go she does, runs straight for her teacher. Then the other woman, she tried to run too, but the guy grabbed her and decked her. Knocked her cold, the teacher said, then stuffed her back in the car and took off." Breathless after his long recitation, Henri had to stop for a moment. He brandished Morag's picture again. "They identified the woman, Jim. It was Morag, Sandburg's friend."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Jim stared at the picture, and then up at Henri.

"Did we get a license plate or anything?" Simon's voice shattered the silence and Henri's smile faded.

"No." The portly detective was still trying to catch his breath. "But, they were Washington plates. And the car was an older model Blazer or something. Blue, with dual radio antennas in front of the cab."

"Run that description through the DMV now!" Simon bellowed. Henri nodded, pivoting on one foot to head back out in the bullpen, colliding with Sandburg at the door. The black man's quick grab kept the grad student from landing on the floor, but Blair ignored the detective in favor of waving his own piece of paper at Jim.

"I found it, man, I found it!"

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

"It" proved to be Martha Douglass Gilbertson's obituary. Jim stared at the paper in his hand as Blair paced in Simon's office, hands waving as he talked.

"Remember we decided the guy was sending a message to his lost love, and we weren't sure if he loved her or hated her anymore? And the date thing has to be some sort of anniversary?" Jim nodded and Simon sighed, standing up to pour himself a new cup of coffee.

"Okay, well, Po said we'd need this information, so I was looking for something, you know, something beyond the obvious, and then we figured out it was the same guy who killed her mom, since he called Morag 'Martha' and--"

"Wait a minute, how did Po know you'd need this information?" Glaring at both Sandburg and Jim over his cup of coffee, Simon's tone boded ill for anyone caught withholding evidence.

Jim shook his head.

"Something about a dream and the voice of several gods...." The Sentinel let his voice trial off meaningfully and Simon shook, like a large chocolate cat who just walked through a puddle of something very, very wet. Rolling his eyes, the Captain sat back in his chair.

"Forget I asked, Sandburg. Just tell us what you found and spare us the details of why you found it."

"It's right here." Sandburg snatched the paper from Jim, and plopped it down on the desk in front of Simon. Leaning over the desk, he stabbed a finger at the article. Simon picked up the paper and stared at it.

"What am I looking for Sandburg? Can you just show me?"

"Here." Moving around to stand beside the Captain, Sandburg pointed at the paper a second time. Simon frowned, following the tip of Sandburg's finger as he read aloud: "Mrs. Gilbertson was preceded in death by a son, Matthew Phillip Harper, Jr." Sandburg looked like a puppy who'd just managed to pee outside instead of on the kitchen floor. If he'd had a tail every flat surface in sight would have been swept clean and he'd have been wiggling with delight. Jim and Simon traded confused looks over the piece of paper, and it slowly dawned on Blair that his companions were not following his reasoning.

"Don't you get it? Her son died, man, he was her son!" Blair slapped at the paper Simon still held.

"And this means...?" Jim shook his head at Sandburg's incredulous stare.

"Her son, man, her *son.* And his name is Matthew Phillip HARPER, JUNIOR. I don't know about you, but man, if my name was John Gilbertson I wouldn't be naming my kid Matthew Harper, Jr. She had to have been married before, and with the fact that--"

"We think March 29th is some sort of anniversary he's marking, it's a possibility that this Harper guy is our man." Jim stood up straight, heading for the door. Blair was right behind him. "Henri's running a trace on that car that they saw Morag with this morning. It won't take much to find out if there's a Matthew Harper here in town."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

There should, Blair thought irrelevantly, be music; like in the movies, suspenseful, building the tension until people were on the edge of their seats, waiting for the next big revelation.

Instead there was only the babble of the bullpen around them, the noisy breath of the three men waiting, waiting and watching for Henri's computer search to come up with something--anything. Henri was seated at his desk, Jim looming over him from behind. It was truly amazing that two such large men could be so close together in such a confined space and still leave room for one slight anthropologist. But, then, he'd always been good at getting into places he wanted to be. If you can't beat 'em, dazzle 'em with bullshit, had been his modus operandi. Then came James Ellison, Sentinel. Blair believed Jim saw right through his b.s. more often than not, but the older man not only tolerated it, he seemed to enjoy it.

Of course, the space they were crowding into wasn't really confined, it was just the area around Henri's desk, but still, the fact that all three of them were trying to be where they could see the computer screen sort of limited their positioning.

"It's coming up."

No one needed Henri's warning, but nobody objected. Blair imagined all the loose papers on Henri's desk suddenly being sucked up against their faces by the rush of indrawn breath and repressed a slightly hysterical giggle. The screen was loading now, and as the picture and information slowly built down the page, all three men leaned even closer to view it.

Matthew Phillip Harper, Sr., lived on the outskirts of Cascade, in an older neighborhood surrounded now by industrial development. Tall, dark haired, handsome--until you looked into those eyes. Green, and blazing with anger--or insanity. The DMV information loaded last: Harper drove a 1978 Chevy Blazer, navy blue, Washington license plate WSX 198.

It couldn't be this easy, could it?

"Print that picture." Jim's eyes had flicked up towards Simon's office before his finger jabbed at Henri's screen. Blair looked over to see a little girl exiting Simon's office with Rhonda and her mother. He caught his breath, looked over to find Jim staring at him.

"*That's* the attempted kidnap victim?"

Jim nodded once, his eyes never leaving Blair's face.

"My God, Jim, she looks enough like Morag to be her sister. Damn. What's he want..." Blair knew the color drained from his face, he felt it and he irrelevantly wondered if his eyes lost their color as well. "What if... what if he's trying to recreate the same scenario?" Blair tried to swallow, but the sudden lump in his throat made that difficult. What did the man have in mind? "What would be so special about this year; why Morag now when he's gone for other women so many other years?" Blair was thinking out loud, he knew it, but he thought better that way anyway, and it saved repeating himself later. "What does he want? What's different about this year..." He closed his eyes, then suddenly, the answer was there. His hand shot out to grab Jim's arm. "Oh my God, Jim, Morag is twenty-seven this year, that's the same age her mother was when she died!"

Jim's stoic gaze said better than words that he agreed with Blair's line of reasoning, and he didn't like it any better than the police observer did. Swallowing hard, Blair released Jim's arm. Okay, it was time to pull himself together, or he'd be no help to Morag at all. He scanned the room and found Rhonda and her guests heading in the direction of the break room. Then, looking up at Jim beside him, a thought tickled at the back of his mind, something Sheena had said last night, what was it? Something about military types....

Jim patted Blair on the back once, then leaned down beside Henri, his hand on the other man's shoulder.

"See what else you can dig up on this guy, okay?"

Henri nodded, reaching for his keyboard, and Blair suddenly found the memory he'd been teasing. He leaned in beside Jim.

"Henri, um, hey, why don't you, uh, why don't you check military records too, man. You know, National Guard, VA hospitals, that kind of stuff. Especially in this area." Blair laughed a little, self-deprecatingly, but Henri just glanced up at him, nodded, and then his fingers were flying over the computer keyboard. Just like that. Didn't even look to Jim for approval, just accepted Blair's addition to the workload. For that matter, Jim simply accepted Blair's contribution as well.

Silently blessing his roommate--in addition to promising Henri help with his paperwork for the next month, Blair looked up to find Jim already over at the communal printer. The Sentinel retrieved the picture as it finished printing and was almost to the break room before Blair caught up to him. Not that Blair didn't trust his Sentinel to be gentle, he just wanted to be there--moral support and all that.

Inside the breakroom, Rhonda and the girl's mother conversed quietly at the counter next to the coffee maker, the little girl already seated at one of the two round tables with a can of soda. Jim went to the mother first, conferring with her while Blair headed for the little girl.

"Hey, Riley."

Large blue eyes looked at him somberly over the can of pop, before shifting to look over at her mom, still at the coffee maker. Blair remembered her from the kiddy safety lecture. She'd sat in the front row, and asked mainly questions about where did he, Blair, live and was he married? The teacher had told him later the young girl had two unmarried aunts, and, thinking of Riley's long dark hair, Blair had thought it just might be worth his while to give her the information she'd asked for. However, that was one week and an entire lifetime ago, before Morag, before Sheena and Persis. Blair realized Riley was staring at him now, and he smiled as he put a hand on the chair across from her.

"You mind if I sit with you for a minute?"

She considered that, then shook her head slowly. Blair pulled out a chair and sat, folding his arms on the table as Jim joined them. The larger man knelt beside Riley, picture clutched in one hand.

"Hi, Riley. Remember me?"

A slow nod, the eyes still huge. Riley's mom had come over with Jim, and she sat down next to the girl, taking her daughter into her lap and wrapping her arms around the small waist. Riley snuggled back into the embrace.

Jim waited until Riley and her mom were settled before he said anything.

"Pretty scary today, huh?" he asked, gently.

Another nod, the eyes flicking from Jim's face to Blair's. Blair smiled encouragingly, he hoped. Damn, why did this case have to involve so many kids? Riley, Persis...Jim's voice pulled his attention away from those dark thoughts.

"You did good, though, you know? You did exactly what you were supposed to." Jim smiled as he spoke, but Riley didn't return his smile. Instead, the large eyes waited a moment, still looking from Blair to Jim. Then she focused on Jim.

"I didn't want to go with him. You said make a lot of noise if we didn't want to go with someone." Her mother's arms tightened around her as she spoke. Jim nodded, slowly, approval shining in his eyes.

"I did, didn't I? And, you did good, really good, Riley."

That rated a smile. The adults waited silently while Riley took a sip of her pop. Clutching the pop can close, Riley frowned.

"What about the other girl? She didn't want to go either, but he took her."

Jim took a deep breath, and Blair dropped his head down on his arms. God, what could they tell her about Morag? She'd saved Riley, but at what cost to herself? Did Riley's parents know what Morag had done for their daughter? Did they realize what fate she'd saved the little girl from? Maybe not; they hadn't read the medical report from Camp LeJeune this afternoon, they didn't know what had been done to the five-year-old Morag and her mom. Blair knew, though, he knew, and he wished he didn't. Men weren't supposed to treat little girls that way--women either, but somehow the magnitude of the horror increased when rape involved five-year-old girls.

Words came to Jim from somewhere to reassure Riley, and his voice drew Blair's thoughts away from the terror he'd read through this afternoon, weeks long horror detailed in stark black and white print.

"But, you know, that's where you can help. Can you look at this picture and tell me if you've seen this man before?"

Blair opened his eyes in time to see Jim hold the paper out, the picture facing toward him, away from Riley. Good job, man. No need to frighten the girl any more than necessary.

Riley twisted around to look at her mom, who smiled encouragingly. Then that somber gaze returned to Jim.

"Okay."

Jim turned the picture of Matt Harper towards her. Riley's eyes grew even rounder, and she jerked her head away, burying her face in her mother's shoulder. They waited another long moment, her mother's hand caressing her hair. Then the blue eyes peeked out at Jim.

"I didn't want to go with him," she whispered.

Jim dropped the picture down beside him, where Riley could no longer see it, and reached out to pat her shoulder with his other hand.

"I know you didn't, Riley, and now we know this is him we're going to put him in jail. You won't have to be afraid of him anymore."

Riley considered that, but she didn't smile. Blair pushed his chair back, and was halfway to his feet when Riley spoke again.

"What about the other girl?"

Blair found himself examining his inner eyelids one more time. What about Morag? They were well within the deadline for her to be alive, but whether or not she'd still be...Morag, there was no telling. Opening his eyes, he sought Jim's face, but the Sentinel wouldn't look at him as he answered the little girl.

"We're going to do our best to make sure she's okay too. Thank you for looking at the picture, and telling us who it was."

Snuggling deeper into her mother's embrace, Riley nodded. Jim stood, mouthed a "Thank you" at the mother, then he was out of the room and headed across the bullpen. Blair had to run to catch up to him. The detective knocked on Simon's door, not waiting for an acknowledgment before he opened it and stood half inside the door. Blair stayed right on his heels. No way was he getting left out of this.

"We've got an id from Riley and the car registered to him matches the vehicle at the school," Jim announced to the room at large. Simon stood, looked at the two men sitting front of his desk and the woman. He held out his hand, and Jim stepped all the way into the room and handed him the picture. Simon extended it toward the woman in the blue dress. She took it, looked at the picture for a few brief seconds, then shook her head.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking at him, my focus was on Riley. It looks right, but I can't be certain." She handed the picture back to Simon, who nodded.

"That's fine, ma'am. Thank you." Simon turned to Jim, but the Sentinel spoke first.

"Probable cause, Sir?"

Simon thought for a second, nodded, then looked at his guests.

"If you folks will excuse us? Rhonda will get someone to finish taking your statements." Rafe was already at the door, and Simon grabbed his coat. Closing his office door behind him, he bellowed "Rhonda!" Blair missed the rest of the conversation as he grabbed his own coat and followed Jim out the door to the elevator. Rafe and Henri were there, Henri with papers in his hands. Simon joined them just as the elevator doors opened.

They filed in, Blair wending his way to the back of the elevator. The Captain reached for the city map that Henri unfolded, and Jim moved over beside him.

"Okay, we'll request some black and whites to meet us there. We'll rendezvous at the corner of..." he consulted the map, "Young and Shute roads. That will give us some time to assess things before we go in. I don't have to remind you we have a victim in there. I do *not* want this to turn into a hostage situation, got that?" His inky stare pinned each man in turn, and they all nodded.

Jim and Simon continued to make plans, but Blair ignored them, closing his eyes and leaning against the back of the elevator as they rode down to the parking garage. He really did not want to think about the fact that Morag's sanity--her very life--depended upon the actions of the Cascade P.D. in the next few hours. Even if they did get to her in time to save her life, what kind of shape would she be in? What had Harper already done to her in the hours she'd been with him? His mind was too full of details from her mother's autopsy and Morag's own medical reports to let his imagination rest easy now that her rescue was nigh. Would his friend have any connection left with the real world? The sound of paper crinkling told him the map was being folded, more plans had to wait until they could scope out the scene itself. For a few seconds blessed silence filled the elevator, and Blair sought desperately to center himself in that void.

Then he felt a bump on his elbow, and he looked over to find Jim beside him, staring at him, blue eyes wide and solemn.

"We'll get him, Chief. She'll be okay." The softly spoken promise was a sacred oath from Sentinel to Guide. Simon looked over his shoulder at them, and Henri and Rafe exchanged a glance too. They didn't catch the undertones in Jim's promise, but still Blair felt the resolve solidify around him, the unspoken promise from these men, from his friends. He didn't feel like sharing all his fears for Morag with them; Jim was the only one who understood everything that was at stake. They were still waiting for some response from him as the elevator dipped and rose to settle at the basement parking garage. The doors opened, but Blair refused to look at the other men. He shrugged.

"Yeah, well, I hope so," was all he could offer in the face of their concern. Even though he was in the back of the elevator, Blair was the first one out, hurrying to Jim's truck before their sympathy undid him completely.


	12. Chapter 12

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_"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold...everywhere_

_The ceremony of innocence is drowned..."_

 

_\---William Butler Yeats_

 

Part 12

 

The cloud cover had broken two hours ago, while they were still inside police headquarters. Spats of rain and cool winds from the Sound were now interspersed with patches of blue sky and late afternoon sunshine. One of those brief sunbreaks blessed them as the Volvo sputtered and coughed, jerking spasmodically while Blair steered it over to the curb. The car died as he parked it there, and one solid blow to the steering wheel for effect earned a thin smile from the Sentinel. It was an amusement Blair obviously did not share.

Beads of sweat shone on his roommate's face and Jim knew it wasn't just the Kevlar vest beneath his buttoned up coat in the sudden sunshine. Morag's life was on the line; whether she knew it or not her hopes--and the hopes of Cascade's finest--were pinned at this moment on one slim hippy observer and his alpha male cop partner. Jim joined Blair as the green hood went up. Blair leaned over the car, muttering imprecations as he fidgeted and fussed with the hoses. Bracing his hands against the side of the old car, Jim leaned over, ostensibly to offer assistance. In reality he was listening, trying to determine who was home and where in the tattered neighborhood.

Tucked in among large factories and warehouses, the railroad running three blocks to the west, the tiny, two block square neighborhood had definitely seen better days. It didn't take Sentinel ears to pick out Jerry Springer's frantic shouts over the brawling noises pouring from the TV set in the white house behind him, the one with the porch sagging beneath multitudinous stacks of liquor boxes and two broken recliners. The next two houses down were silent and still, the only activity there the slow peeling of white clapboard. Spanish music blared from a radio in the mustard yellow house across the street, rose bushes spaced neatly through the dirt yard in place of grass. This house was neat and clean, unlike most of the rest of the street where yards rank with weeds seemed to be the order of the local neighborhood association.

As Jim scanned the area, Blair kept his hands and his mouth moving, not a difficult feat for the younger man. After a second, Jim realized that Blair was talking to Morag, Sheena, whomever, reassuring them, telling them help was here, just hang on, don't be afraid. Jim put his head down for a moment. It had taken time to lay their plans; it would take time now to get other innocents out of harm's way, and they were all too aware that it was time Morag might not have. Taking a deep breath and tuning out Blair's prattle, he returned to his task.

It was the house just past the yellow one that drew Jim's attention now, one over and across the street from where he and Blair stood beside the stalled Volvo. A short wooden fence surrounded the house, faded gray planks all the way out to the sidewalk, with a few tall weeds showing here and there for color and contrast. Torn and ragged, blue asphalt siding fell from mildewed walls beyond the fence. The curtains were tightly closed, as was the front door, but the metal screen hung open, twisted and half off its hinges. Jim took a deep breath, pretended to point something out to Blair, and focused.

Music first, a compilation of rock and roll and protest music from the sixties. Jim repressed a shudder as the first measures of Simon and Garfunkel's "Canticle" warbled through the room. Piggybacking his sense of smell onto hearing, Jim took a deep breath and sneezed violently. He shook his head as Blair reached for him with a grease-covered hand. Blair stopped just short of grabbing Jim's arm, as the Sentinel dug a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped at his nose with it.

"Sage," he whispered, and Blair shot a dark look over his shoulder at the blue house. Then he returned to fiddling with the car, still muttering, still talking to Persis and Morag even though there was no guarantee anyone could hear him. Jim pocketed the handkerchief and leaned over the engine, tuning the scent of sage out as he focused once more on the house across the street.

It wasn't just sage, it was all of them, all the scents he'd smelled before: thyme, rosemary, even pansies and roses. Blair had found the information on the web yesterday at an online flower dictionary. Pansies were for thoughts, thoughts of the person's beloved. White roses stood for purity, and said in Victorian times, "My love is worthy of you." Rosemary was remembrance. Sage stood for esteem; thyme heralded activity. Woven all together, with the words of that song to hold them in place, in this case it all added up to Harper fixating on one woman, the daughter of a woman he'd evidently once loved. What had happened to that love, and why it had twisted into the bizarre ceremony of remembrance it had become in Harper's mind, well, they'd have to figure that out later. Right now they needed to be certain whether or not Morag was in the house before they moved on Harper.

Jim focused further, moving on from the scents and sounds of the first room to the next, a kitchen from the way the voices he now heard were echoing around the metal appliances.

"...promised! I did it, I opened the door! You promised if I opened it you'd lea--"

Persis. It was Persis in there, and--

"Lying slut! You made your choice, and Martha paid for it! It was your fault, your choice, and you know it!"

"No, you promised, you--"

"Why you'd do it, little bitch? Why'd you do it? Why'd you make me kill her?"

"I didn'--you said choose and I did, an--"

There was the sound of a blow, and someone cried out, then whimpered. No, *Persis* whimpered. Jim recognized the sound from last night. Damn the man for hurting her--Jim fought back the rage that swelled in him, told himself the irate jaguar roaring in his ears was only in his mind. No one would be served if the Sentinel went off half cocked, goaded to premature action by rage.

He must have made some outward show, though, because Blair was suddenly still, those blue eyes staring up at him, demanding answers. Jim nodded once, curtly, and Blair swore before going back to his reassurances. He yanked on the hose connecting the air filter to the rest of the engine. If the man wasn't careful, he would have some real damage to repair, not just the carburetor that Henri and Jim had jury-rigged half an hour ago.

It only took a few crisp words in the microphone concealed beneath Jim's tan coat to see that the grandmother and her extended family in the yellow house were spirited out and away, down the alley to safety among the gathering of police cars two blocks down. The other residents should be fine; they were far enough away from whatever action there might shortly be. While he waited for the covert activity at the yellow house to be finished, Jim focused his hearing again on the blue house. Harper was still talking.

"...And then you've got the gall to grow up to look just like her, little bitch! You stole her from me! You stole her life and I'm gonna get you for her, I'm gonna get you for her!"

Sobbing now--Persis was sobbing, and Jim gritted his teeth. It sounded as if she was sitting down, Harper pacing the floor in front of her--then a chair fell back and someone gasped as if they'd been grabbed suddenly. Damn, what was the man up to in there?

"God, you look just like her, you do...Martha, why didn't you wait for me? Why?" The last anguished cry was muffled, like Harper's face was pressed against something. Jim listened carefully. Struggling, someone was struggling and then the hair prickled on the back of his neck right as he heard a slap and the sound of tearing cloth--

"Get your hands off me!"

Damn! Sheena was too hot for this type of situation, she'd goad Harper into doing something stupid if they didn't hurry!

Jim stood up straight, scanning the house across from them for action, keeping an ear on the proceedings in Harper's house as well. Where the hell was the SWAT team? From the sounds of things Harper threw Sheena down, and Jim heard the whisper of steel. Trouble was, he couldn't tell who had the knife.

"Just stay away from me!" Okay, sounded like Sheena had obtained something she could use for her own defense, but he'd rather she didn't have to use it at all. From across the room, Harper was ranting.

"You're a slut just like she was, you know that? Look just like her, act just like her. You spread your legs for anything in a uniform like she did? How long did it take you to spread your legs for Gilbertson, huh? Bitch! Were you out sleeping with him the night my baby boy died? Were you? I rotted in that damn cage for three years, kept myself alive thinking that when I got home you'd be there, and imagining how big Matty was getting and then when I finally got here he was dead and you were fucking my damn CO!! You lying whore!"

This was getting ugly, fast, and Jim wasn't waiting any longer. One slight nod of his head and Blair dropped the hood of the Volvo. Simon's voice crackled in Jim's ear, telling him Henri and Rafe were in position in the back, but he was already across the street, Blair right beside him. He spared barely a glance for the dark uniformed men who finally popped up on the roof of the mustard colored house next door, swiftly catwalking across the gray shingles to take their posts on the side of the house next to Harper's. Both men held teargas guns along with their rifles.

Stepping over the faded grey fence, Jim eased across the abbreviated yard toward the porch, drawing his gun and extending his hearing once again.

A gasp, and the shuffle of feet inside, the sounds of pursuit before there was silence, and Harper's rant continued. It sounded like Sheena was managing to stay away from him for now, but Jim lengthened his stride, hurrying across the last few feet to the short porch.

"You can't get away, bitch. I can hit you with this; it doesn't have to kill you, not yet. Tomorrow we'll find us another little girl and she's gonna betray you the same way you betrayed your mom. She'll choose and you'll find out what it's like, you stupid bitch. I'll go by myself this time, you won't ruin it again. You're gonna die, bitch, just like my Martha did, screaming and hollering and--"

"Police, open up!"

The door flew open at Jim's kick, and he was in the sparsely furnished living room, gun out in front. Through the large archway across from him, he saw Sheena, her black dress torn from one shoulder. Backed up against the refrigerator next to another doorway, she held a large butcher knife out in front of her. Blood dripped from a cut on the right side of her face. Harper stood directly in front of the Sentinel, just inside the archway, arm crooked up holding another knife by the blade at shoulder height.

Jim had just enough warning to turn and tackle Blair to the ground as Harper whirled and flung the knife at them. There was a loud "Uuungh!" beneath him as Blair's breath was forced out of his lungs. The knife Harper had thrown vibrated in the door frame behind them. Jim scrambled to his hands and knees, barely in time to fend off the first kick as Harper rushed him. Grabbing Harper's foot, he upended the man onto the avocado green carpet. His opponent's head hit the floor with a very satisfying thump, and bounced two or three more times for good measure. By the time Harper's eyes were open and focusing, and he tensed in preparation to continue the fight, the business end of Jim's gun was threatening to pick his nose.

"Just give me a reason," Jim growled, and Harper relaxed, slowly. The large, golden lion's head ring on his right hand glinted in the light as his hands went up.

Damn, the man was going to play nice.

Blair's agonized gasping sounded loudly behind him as Jim holstered his gun and fished his handcuffs out of his pocket. Cuffing one wrist, he rolled Harper over to pull the other hand down to join the one behind his back. Jim tightened the cuffs all the way down. Petty, yes, but damn, the man deserved it and more. Henri was there now, holstering his gun, and police cars were screeching to a halt outside.

"Read him his rights, H?" Henri nodded, pulling Harper roughly to his feet. Jim tuned out the all-too-familiar recitation, turning instead to where Blair lay curled in on himself, still trying to breathe.

The odor of Simon's cigars preceded the pounding of feet down the sidewalk as Henri shoved Harper out the front door. Jim knelt beside Blair, but before he could help him sit up Blair's hand shot out and grabbed his arm, fingers clenching around Jim's wrist with bruising force.

"Mora--" he gasped, and Jim swung around to the kitchen. He was a second too late.

"Ouch! Damn!" Rafe had one hand on his bleeding face as he staggered back from where Sheena was huddled at the foot of the refrigerator. As soon as Rafe was far enough away, she scuttled off to the side, the butcher knife spinning across the floor as she accidentally kicked it. Then she was out of Jim's range of view and a door slammed.

"Rafe, what the hell are you doing?" Simon bellowed from the living room behind Jim as the Sentinel moved swifly into the kitchen. Staring at the closed door in front of him, he could hear a heartbeat in the room beyond but the itchy feeling on the back of his neck told him it wasn't Sheena, not any more.

"Morag?" he guessed. "It's Jim. Blair's here, too. Harper's gone, he can't hurt you anymore." Nothing, nothing but silence laid over the pounding heart behind the closed door. Rafe's aggrieved explanation cut through the kitchen as Jim waited for an answer.

"Damn, Captain, I was just trying to help her, see if she was okay!" A vaguely familiar, uniformed police woman silently handed Rafe a paper towel. He swore again as he dabbed at the four parallel scratches trailing down his left cheek.

Jim tuned out Simon's lecture on how *not* to approach a terrified hostage, listening instead to the activity inside the room. Whimpers and stifled sobs accompanied the sounds of drawers being pulled open. What was she searching for? And, who *was* this? The rapid, panicked heartbeat was similar to Persis's, but the scent was more like Morag's. He shook his head and yielded his place at the door to Blair. Behind them Simon was ordering everyone out of the house, all but the policewoman and himself.

Arms clutched protectively around his chest, Blair took a deep breath and called "Sheena?" Jim touched his shoulder and shook his head again. Sandburg frowned, then mouthed "Persis?" Another shake of the head, and Jim shrugged, his hands open before him. He didn't know this heartbeat, or this person moving in the other room. Morag, but not Morag. He must have whispered that, because Blair frowned. Suddenly, the grad student's head shot up and he put both hands up on the door, palms flat against the wood.

"Emby? Is that you? It's me, Blair."

Behind the door, the heartbeat jumped and skipped, then raced faster than before. Blair's hand intercepted Jim's as he reached for the knob. Then glass shattered inside the room. Someone cried out a second later, and Jim heard more fabric tearing. This time he reached the knob before Blair and the door was open just in time for them to see Morag tumble through the window to the yard outside the house.

"Damn!"

Simon stood in the kitchen looking confused as Blair flew past him out the back door. Following at his roommate's heels for once, Jim called back over his shoulder.

"She went out the window!"

Simon swore, and Jim winced as the Captain bellowed into his radio.

"Get everyone back away from the house! We've got a very confused and frightened hostage here. Keep the perimeter tight, but do not approach her! I repeat, do NOT approach. Sandburg and Ellison will handle this by themselves."

Blair was staring at the watery bloodstains on the shards of glass lining the window when Jim rounded the corner of the house, the uniformed police woman a few respectful steps behind him. An army issue ammunition box lay on the grass amidst the shattered window; a book, folded papers and photos spilled from it. The grad student's hand shook as he reached out to trace the smeared blood, and then Blair turned pleading eyes on his Sentinel. Jim sighed, then focused. Morag's blood smeared on Jim's coat when Blair grabbed the detective's arm, but Jim ignored it, focused instead on his hearing, his sense of smell...

The coppery tang of blood and the frightened pounding of a child's heart led them further around the house, to the side yard where several overgrown rhododendrons fought with a large juniper bush for space. There was a fragment of wooden fence here, separating the front and back yards and failing entirely to confine the shrubbery to the back. Jim stopped beside the bushes, and gestured. Blair knelt down.

"Emby?" he called.

No answer, just the rustle of bushes as she withdrew further into her shelter. Jim stared at the bloodstain on the ground at his feet. Damn, she had cut herself pretty good climbing through that window. He waved the overeager policewoman back as Blair tried again.

"Emby, it's Blair, and Jim's here too. We're not going to hurt you, you know that, or you wouldn't have had Persis call us. We can help you. Harper's gone, we won't let him hurt you again."

No answer, just sniffles and sobs. The scent of blood was getting stronger, like there was more of it. Jim sighed and tapped Blair's shoulder. When his roommate looked up at him, Jim pointed at the bloodstain on his coatsleeve, then the one on the ground. Blair's eyes widened, and he swallowed the word "Shit!" before it got out to where Sentinel ears in the bushes could hear it. He closed his eyes, wiped at the sweat on his forehead with one sleeve, and breathed deeply for a couple of seconds. Opening his eyes then, he sat cross-legged on the ground in front of the bushes, indicating with a hand wave that Jim should join him there.

"Emby? We can wait until you feel safe to come out, but you know, we're kind of worried about those cuts you got going through the window. Jim's a medic, would you let him look at the cuts?" Blair's voice had automatically dropped into the low, hypnotic Guide tone.

From his vantage point on one knee beside Blair, Jim could see into the bushes. It took a long minute, but he was eventually able to make out the huddled shape of Emby in the farthest, darkest corner behind the bushes, where the house and fence met. Hair down around her face, she rocked slightly as she squatted, knees drawn tightly up against her chest. Something was in her hands, and Jim's stomach lurched when he realized it was a long, triangular piece of glass. Blood dripped from its edges as she turned it in her fingers. Eyes closed, lips moving, she was ignoring Blair, and Jim put one hand on Blair's shoulder as he tuned in to her whispered words. She shared Persis's southern accent, but hers was softer, more genteel.

"...fault it's all my fault my fault Mama's dead Daddy hates me Mama's dead he killed her Mama's dead 'cause I said no I didn't want to, I didn't want to and he killed her and it's all my fault it's all my fault my fault Mama's dead Daddy hates me..."

SHIT! He kept his voice low.

"Blair, she's got a piece of glass and I think she's--"

But Blair hadn't waited to hear the rest of what Jim had to say. He was in the bushes, crawling through the dirt on his hands and knees as Emby stopped playing with her impromptu knife and huddled away from him. Blair stopped about three feet from her, Jim pulling up short right behind him. Jim turned up the dial on his sense of smell, searching for evidence of other bodily fluids besides blood, but there was nothing. Maybe they'd been in time to spare Morag that trauma for once in her life. Dialing down his sense of smell before he zoned on the scent of her blood, he brushed off a spider and waited for Blair. Some corner of his mind marvelled briefly at the incredible ability of the human mind, the human body, to transform a 27-year-old woman into a skinny, frightened child.

"Emby..." Blair crooned.

The child shuddered, and then, not even opening her eyes, she started rocking again, keeping time with her whispered mantra. Blair's sharp gasp said he heard her, loud and clear. This time she wasn't playing with the shard of glass. Her left wrist turned up, she placed the tip of the blade-like piece against the skin and mumbled on. Jim put a hand on Blair's shoulder to keep him from reaching for Emby. She didn't need any help from them in damaging her arm.

Blair shook him off with an angry glare, and Jim held his hands up. Behind them police woman knelt beside the bushes, a concerned look on her face. It suddenly dawned on Jim where he'd seen her before; Officer Detmeier, Alice Detmeier. She worked with a special sexual assault unit. No wonder she was dogging his heels. Obviously she did not trust a Neanderthal like him to know what to do with a rape victim. Only this time it wasn't "just" a rape they were dealing with, and Officer Detmeier might be the one who was out of her depth. Jim knew he was; it was his blind faith in Sandburg that kept him here, faith that the grad student cum police observer cum shaman could somehow help the shattered soul huddled in the dark before them.

He heard Simon's voice, and then Officer Detmeier was standing, Simon explaining in low tones what he knew of Morag's history to her as they went towards the back of the house. Okay, that got her out of the way, and he could focus on Blair without worrying about any more interference.

"Emby..." Blair sighed, pleading, "don't. You don't have to do this. No matter what Harper told you it was *not* your fault your mother died."

The rocking stopped, and for a long moment there was no movement whatsoever from the figure huddled before them. Blair eased fractionally closer to Emby, his fingers twitching the same way they had when he'd described the Morag he wanted to date, only this time the itch wasn't to run his fingers through her hair. As if he felt Jim's gaze, felt the caution Jim was urging silently, Blair's hand suddenly clenched in a fist. Caught up in watching his Guide, Jim didn't realize at first that Emby was looking at them.

Her icy-grey eyes literally glowed in the dim light; the clouds had settled in again as the day moved on toward evening. Tears streamed down her face, but she was *looking* at them. Not running away, not fighting, just looking. Jim had been right earlier, it was Morag, but not Morag. At one point on the way home from Samish, Blair had tried to explain what little he knew of how the process of splitting personalities worked. He theorized that Emby must be the root personality, the original soul. Morag was probably the closest link to Emby, sort of an Emby Lite, Blair had said with a grim smile, Emby minus the memories and emotional baggage that Sheena and Persis held for her. The macabre joke had not lightened the atmosphere in the pickup at all.

Emby blinked, and the hand holding the glass at her wrist shifted a little, the sharp point easing away from the delicate skin. Not far enough though, as the small drops of blood welling up at the tip of the shard proved.

Blair swallowed, loudly, then shifted closer yet to Emby.

"Emby, please, listen to me. It. Was. Not. Your. Fault." He took a breath, but Emby's whisper came first.

"Nobody," she swallowed a sudden sob, "Nobody's called me Emby since Mama died." She looked away then, her body shuddering with sobs that she tried to stifle. Blair eased closer to her, his hands actually going out toward her, jerking them back just before she looked at them, misery pouring from those eyes. "Daddy never called me that again, 'cause he didn't love me anymore, not after I..." A sniff, another sob, and the glass jolted against her wrist, more blood pouring from her fingers as she gripped it tighter. "Not after I killed Mommy."

"Emby, you did not kill your mother!" Blair insisted, now kneeling a scant two feet in front of her. "Matthew Harper killed her, and he tried to kill you too."

She frowned, and shook her head.

"No, it was my choice, my decision. He said so." She met Blair's gaze, her eyes pleading for understanding as she positioned the glass upright over her wrist again. "It was my choice, he let me choose." Blair stared at her for a minute, then swallowed.

"What did he let you choose?"

Bravo, Blair. Find out exactly what it is you're fighting here, hope that you can convince her differently before she drives that glass home. Jim considered just diving for the glass, taking care of it all by brute strength, but the sad truth was Blair was right to coax it from her. Morag--Emby--had been brutalized too much in her life; she wouldn't understand. In trying to save her, they might very well drive her so far over the edge she wouldn't be able to find her way back. His leg was going numb, and he shifted slightly, easing to a more comfortable position. Sirens shrieked, but that was outside, beyond the dark cave they dwelt in for now, the dim cavern that hid the bright soul of a not-quite-six-year-old girl and dimmed the light in her eyes.

Emby wouldn't look at them, and Jim realized belatedly that she was blushing. She inched away, from the two men, though she couldn't go far, not with the wall right there behind her. Blair's voice held an infinity of gentleness and compassion as he repeated his question.

"What did he let you choose, Emby?"

She gulped, and her chin went up. Then, holding utterly, absolutely still, she began to talk.

"Mama cried a lot, and she was always yelling at him--until he hit her. He hit her so much...She told him she never loved him, she'd never have married him in the first place, but he forced her, got her with that baby. She loved my brother Matty, but, Matty, he died afore I was born." She ducked her head, resting her forehead against her knees, rocking back and forth again.

Blair was even closer now; damn, where did the man learn to move like that? Jim learned it in the Rangers, but Blair hadn't been there, hadn't learned to ghost through his surroundings like Jim had. He'd picked it up somewhere, though; good thing too. Twelve inches was all that separated him from Emby, Emby and that piece of glass she still held against her wrist, though her grip had relaxed somewhat and the shard now lay across her arm instead of being ready to impale her. Emby paused a moment, and tilted her head long enough to look at Blair. Both men froze, afraid that she'd pull away, but she just looked at him with empty eyes for a moment. Then she looked back at her knees and began to rock and talk again.

"And Matt, he didn' come back, he never came home and she was all by herself--except Daddy, he came to tell her 'bout Matt, and then she wasn't alone 'cause he fell in love with Mama,, and she fell in love with him and she didn't want to be Matt's wife anymore. Momma tol' Matt all that, she told him. She begged him, said she'd marry up with him again if he'd just let me go, leave me be but Matt, he laughed, said he was gonna keep me, raise me right, make himself another Martha who wouldn't treat him the way she did. I heard it, I heard them all the time, not just when he let me out of the closet."

She turned her head, still resting it on her knees but facing away from them now, into the wall beside her. Her fingers clenched around the glass, and Sandburg half reached to take it away before drawing his hands back and inching closer yet.

"You all can hear a lot in a closet, you know? I tried not to listen, I tried not to, but I couldn't help it. Mama cried so much, said he hadn't changed a bit, and he hit her some more, and jumped on her. After a while I got mad and I started hitting the door and crying and telling him he better leave my mama alone and then he pulled me out and said he'd give me a reason to scream, he'd teach me the right way for a woman to scream."

Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned against the wall. Sandburg was beside her now, but she pulled away from him, curled her arms up between her knees and her chest. That took the glass away from her wrist, but she was still gripping it tightly as she shook with sobs.

"It hurt, it hurt so bad and I cried and Mama was crying in the closet and cussing at him and after--" she sniffed, and whimpered, and Blair wanted to hold her, Jim could feel it, but he didn't, he just sat beside her and waited. "After he said I could choose, he said I was so worried about Mama I could...I could be his woman instead, and he'd let her go and never hurt her again, and I...I wanted to say 'yes,' I wanted to, but I was so scared I couldn't and then he laughed and said he'd have to try me again, give me a second chance, and I did it then..." her voice trailed off, buried under the weight of her shame. She swallowed, and Jim realized his throat was tight too, and Sandburg's must have been as well, because for once the man had nothing to say. Emby took a deep breath and then blurted, "It is too my fault, 'cause I said 'no, I don't want to.' And Mama died because of me."

Damn, he should have killed the man when he had chance, he really should have. Course, once it got round the prison what Harper had done--and it would get round the prison, Jim was sure of that--the man wouldn't last long anyway.

"It still wasn't your fault, Emby, it wasn't your fault at all. There was no choice for you; no matter what you had said he would still have hurt your mother. He didn't leave you alone after that, did he?"

Impossibly, she was shrinking away from Blair, further into the wall, pressed so hard against it that it must have been painful. Blair was through with waiting though. He reached out and gently caressed her hair. Emby shivered but she didn't object, and Blair slid his arm around her, pulling her into his embrace with that hand while his other hand reached for the glass she still gripped. Unresisting, she let him tuck her under his wing, but refused to let go of the glass. Blair didn't force the issue, just kept his hand there, holding her securely and resting his cheek against her hair.

It was a minute movement, but after a moment she shook her head and breathed out, "No."

"See, he wouldn't have left her alone even if you'd said yes to him. It wasn't your choice, Emby, it was his and he was wrong to lay the blame on you. It's not your fault, not your fault at all. What did your mama say after that?"

"She said be strong, Daddy loves us, he's looking for us. But Daddy never came and I thought it was 'cause I wasn't strong enough to keep him from hurting Mama. Daddy hated me, and that's why he never came for me."

Blair held Emby close, rocking her.

"Emby, your Daddy loved you, he did. If he could have found you, he would have been there. He was looking for you the whole time you were gone, I know he was. I've read the story."

"No! It was my fault, I should have died then and I deserve to die now. It should have been me, it should have been me--" Emby didn't pull away, but she went rigid in Blair's arms, the knuckles of her right hand white around the glass now. Jim tried not to think about the damage she could be doing to the tendons and ligaments as he inched closer.

Blair refused to give in to her insistence.

"Emby, it wasn't your fault, you don't deserve to die. You were just a little girl; you were just a little girl. It wasn't your fault." Blair repeated the new mantra over and over again. Suddenly she was sobbing, collapsing against him and Blair pulled the glass from her grip, flinging it from them before enfolding her in his arms and Jim sat back on his heels and watched as they both sobbed together.

After a couple of minutes, when Emby's sobs began to ease off, Jim moved up beside them, hating to interrupt, but the blood on Emby's hand had him worried. The few cuts he could see on her back and shoulders were minor, as far as his Sentinel senses could tell. He brushed a hand against Sandburg's shoulder, and Blair shrugged minutely. Emby didn't seem to notice as Jim wriggled out of his coat and gently draped it across her back, reaching for the damaged hand afterwards. There was no objection, and Sandburg continued to hold her tightly as Jim inspected the damage.

Damn, there was so much blood! She didn't resist, just shivered as Jim focused in the dim light and began to pluck stray slivers of glass from the cuts, trying to assess the seriousness of the wounds as he worked. Thankfully there wasn't much glass to clean out. Jim removed his shirt and began wrapping it tightly around her hand. Emby didn't move, just huddled in Blair's arms as he rocked her. Finished, Jim looked up and met Sandburg's eyes just as he felt the faint prickle on the back of his neck.

Jim took a deep breath, but before he could sort out the scents of blood and Sandburg and fear from whomever's, Morag spoke, her voice muffled against Blair's chest.

"Blair?"

"Shh...it's all right, Morag, it's all right. It's over; it's all over now," Blair soothed.

Her answering whisper was barely audible above the patter of rain on the leaves, the voices of paramedics and policemen waiting at the curb.

"Blair, I don't....I don't want to remember any more."


	13. Chapter 13

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_"You shall find out how salt is the taste of another man's bread, and how hard is the way up and down another man's stairs."_

_\---Dante_

 

Part 13

 

 

The candles were guttering by the time Jim got home. Shadows leaped and clawed at the flickering candlelight like junglecats, roving darkness that stalked the sand-colored light around the loft, capturing it and plunging the room into blackness, only to fall back beneath the flaring illumination of another sputtering candle. The silent war waged in bizarre counterpoint to the music drifting softly from the downstairs bedroom. Jim put an end to the battle by hitting the light switch by the door. He'd had enough of shadows for one day.

This was the second time he'd come home today; this time he could stay. No Rafe waiting, one foot up on the hood of Volvo he'd driven home for Blair, no warrant, no message from Simon wanting Jim to return to Harper's house for what had been an almost pointless three hour search. Sure, they'd found the small herb garden on the back porch, and there'd been the dried out bouquet on the kitchen counter; Jim had smelled all that from outside before they went in.

The evidence they'd needed--really needed--had been at their feet the moment Emby launched it through the window.

Most of the important evidence resided now in the box Jim carried in one hand. It had been easier to just put everything in there to bring it home, but still, something really bothered him about Harper's journal--even shrouded in Ziploc--sharing such an intimate space with the information that had saved Morag's life. Simon had pushed the book toward him before he left tonight, mumbling something about getting Blair's opinion on the pages covered with Harper's tiny, furious printing. Jim knew better. Simon understood as well as he did that Sandburg deserved to see what they'd found in that journal, not to mention some privacy while he did so. Besides, there were a couple of large holes that they'd only been able to fill in when Harper's military records had come oozing out of the fax machine. That was directly Blair's doing. The kid deserved a lot of credit for his contributions to this case. So Jim had signed for more evidence, and brought it all home for Sandburg.

He closed the door gently, his keys landing in the basket on top of Sandburg's with a soft "chink." From there it was only two large steps to the kitchen, where he could lay his burden down. Po's carved box rested on the counter while Jim found the light switch by the sink. That dim light joined the lamp shining soberly in the living room as he opened the box. Harper's journal slithered out as he did so, sliding off the pile of other plastic bags and papers and onto the counter, as if to get away from the record of Morag's accumulated misery.

Picking that particular Ziploc bag up, he looked around for something else to hide the journal in. The only hiding place available was a paper bag he found in the kitchen, so Jim stuffed the journal inside and hoped the noise of paper crinkling wasn't enough to wake the pair sleeping in the other room. Maybe the music would cover it. For the first time, Jim realized the tune wasn't Blair's usual stuff, not his Aboriginal Earth Music or the grunge rock he sometimes inflicted on his roommate. This was pleasant enough: acoustic guitar and probably a real string bass, the style jazz and bluegrass all at the same time. Curious, Jim focused on the two male voices, singing...

Nursery rhymes?

Since when did Sandburg start listening to nursery rhymes? Remembering the loft's other occupant, Jim shook his head. Probably since Blair's 27-year-old friend turned out to have two small, terrified child-identities tucked inside her heart. Jim shook his head as he took both box and bag upstairs and set them on his dresser. No sense leaving things lying around where curious children could get into them.

Trotting back down the stairs Jim tuned into the lyrics again, and smiled grimly. This particular nursery rhyme the two singers were rattling off was actually fairly appropriate for their day:

"...kissed the girls and made them cry and when the boys came out to play they threw him out the window, the window, a second-story window, they threw him out the window. When the boys came out to play they threw him out the window. Little Miss Muffett..."

Shrugging out of his coat and dropping it on the hook, Jim brought his elbows up and twisted at the waist, feeling his back muscles stretch just the tiniest bit while the vertebrae snapped and popped. Halfway through his last rotation, he stopped for a minute, and sniffed. The trip to that little New Age store last month had been worth the two hours of sneezing he'd suffered afterward; the candles he'd purchased for Sandburg really were scentless. He moved over and blew out the four dying on the coffee table, wondering why his roommate insisted on having them out here when he wasn't even in the room. Jim had to admit they were easier on his eyes, much softer and nicer than regular lights.

He took another minute to stoke the woodstove; the loft was warm for now, but the wood Jim added would ensure the rooms remained cozy for the rest of the chilly spring night.

Standing, he dusted the slivers and wooddust from his hands. The pleasant scent of burning pine that rose from the woodstove couldn't override the odor of Sandburg's private incense blend. None of those prepackaged blends, not for his roommate. Too gauche, too yuppy. No, Blair had his own compound, one he made up and convinced the herbalist to mix for him. Jim didn't recognize most of the ingredients on the list Blair had shown him--though sage was conspicuously absent, much to his relief. "Essence of Good Vibes" he'd called the stuff, teasingly, and Blair had smacked the back of his head when he helpfully pointed out they forgot the boiled butterfly tongues and eye of newt. The younger man had insisted the Sentinel try the incense anyway.

And it worked. Sorta cleared the sinuses out as well, but this latest batch was better than the others. Jim couldn't deny that the incense did ease his occasional tension--to a point. Sometimes a good workout at the gym was the only cure for what ailed him. He'd been sorely tempted tonight to get a copy of Harper's booking photo and paste it on the punching bag down at the police station. Of course then he'd probably have to take a number to get his place in the line that would form for the privilege of taking a few blows at the thing.

The door to Sandburg's room was partially open, and Jim swung by there on his way to the refrigerator. The white noise generators weren't running; he'd known from the minute he came through the main building door downstairs they were both asleep, but there wasn't much that beat seeing for himself.

In the muted light spilling into the room from the kitchen, Sandburg and Morag could have been twins. There really ought to be a law against any single person having that much hair, not to mention two of them--and both having curls to boot. Jim permitted himself a small smile, knowing that neither of the two sleepers would see him. Sprawled on his back across the foot of his bed, feet dangling towards the floor and one arm crooked over his eyes, Sandburg snored softly. Morag slept half-curled up perpendicular to him, her head on his stomach and Blair's free hand on her head. The two butterfly bandages on her cheek couldn't cover the bruising from Harper's blow, but the swollen lip had already started to go down. Morag's right hand, a fluffy bundle of white gauze and tape, rested on a nearby pillow.

The way Morag slept, her posture loose and relaxed, said better than words that she felt safe, protected. Well, with Pit Bull Sandburg by her side, she was. Of course, her current ease might be result of the "don't worry" drugs the hospital staff had shot her full of, trying to keep her calm long enough to stitch up her hand. Though Morag was leaning heavily on Sandburg when they finally came out of the treatment room, *Blair* was the one who looked like he'd been through the wringer.

No, the song reminded him, that was "through the window." Jim shivered and shook his head, closing his eyes and willing away the picture of Emby hunched beneath the rhodies and playing with that long glass knife, blood dripping from her hands the entire time. Damn, Sandburg deserved a citation for that one, talking her down without anyone getting seriously hurt and at the same time maintaining what mental connection she had with the real world. And Jim had thought the stories Sheena and Persis told were awful...No wonder the poor woman didn't want to remember; no wonder Emby had run away to the only safe place around: deep inside her own mind, her own soul.

Emby. Morag. They were the same, but not the same. One a five-year-old child and the other a grown woman, the differentiation between them was softer, not so firm as it was between Morag and Sheena, or Persis. Jim had had a hard time tonight telling them apart, hardly noticing when they switched in and out--as they had done frequently after the confession under the rhododendron. Conversely, Sandburg seemed to have less trouble telling who was whom.

Or maybe Jim had just gotten used to all the hair standing up on the back of his neck.

With one last look at the peacefully slumbering pair, Jim soft-footed into the kitchen. He had most of two ham sandwiches put together before a rumpled Sandburg appeared in the doorway to his room, stretching his arms and yawning. The song had changed; now it was some sort of tongue twister about Napoleon and coffee. The music was a bit more upbeat and Jim paused for a moment, just to see if he could say the tongue twisting chorus about proper cups of coffee in proper copper coffee pots.

"It takes a certain level of verbal ability, Jim." Still stretching, Sandburg winced, and put a hand to his ribs as he came on out into the kitchen.

Plopping a slice of bread on top of a pile of ham, Jim ignored the implied insult and frowned.

"You all right?"

Sandburg shrugged and smiled, rubbing his chest as he watched Jim work.

"Yeah. Just remember never to be *under* the dogpile when there's Kevlar involved. Take it from me, man, you don't want to be on the down side of a Kevlar sandwich." Blair peered around Jim at the counter. "Speaking of sandwiches, you know that looks like a perfect solu--"

Jim blocked Sandburg's grab with an elbow.

"There's enough; make your own," he growled, placing himself firmly between the grad student and his food as he finished assembling the second sandwich. Stepping back just a fraction, Blair grinned. Jim directed a stern look at him before retrieving milk from the fridge. A large glass filled quickly, and then the Sentinel escaped with his sandwiches and milk to the table. Blair took his place at the kitchen island, rapidly assembling his own creation--after returning to the fridge for the no-egg mayonnaise Jim had ignored earlier in favor of the real stuff.

"So, next time you have to save my life, think you can manage not to squash me in the process?" Blair griped good-naturedly, wiping a hand on his shirt after pulling his own ham out of the deli bag.

'You were wearing red," Jim managed, around a large mouthful of sandwich. He shrugged, stuffing another bite of sandwich in before the first one was completely gone. The teapot song was still playing, something now about scandals and the Queen of Sheba not liking her silver coffeepots.

"Huh?" Sandburg's hand stopped in midswipe with the mayonnaise-covered knife. He frowned. "I don't get it. What's that got to do with anything?"

Jim chased the bite down with a drink of milk, then gave Sandburg a mock glare as an entire slice of ham detoured from the sandwich-in-progress to disappear into his roommate's mouth.

"I tackled you because, Kevlar or no, you were wearing red. I've had to sit through enough Star Trek to know what happens to the guys who wear red."

In a surprising display of manual dexterity, Sandburg managed to cover his mouth with one hand to avoid spraying his half-chewed meat all over the counter as he laughed and choked all at once, while at the same time he groaned and rubbed his sore ribs with the other hand. Once his eyes quit streaming and he had his laughter under control, Sandburg swallowed and shook his head at Jim.

"Man, don't do that to me!"

Jim concealed his own smile behind another bite of sandwich. Good. Blair's eyes had been far too haunted today, especially since that devastating first encounter with Emby.

Standing up straight now, Sandburg pointed the butter knife at his roommate and intoned, "Ah, the infamous 'expendable crew members,'" in his best Professional Purveyor of Bullshit voice. He chuckled, dropping the knife and spinning the lid onto the mayonnaise jar before returning it to the fridge. "You'd think those guys would have learned rather quickly that it was *not* smart at all to be the man in red on a landing party. Scotty's the only one who ever got away with it."

His mouth full, Jim only nodded in answer. Sandburg poured himself a glass of milk and brought his plate and drink over to the table. The music in the background changed again; now it was something about needing a Band-Aid. Swallowing the last of his first sandwich, Jim grinned.

"We should make that your theme song, Chief."

His own mouth full, Blair listened for a minute.

"...think I'll need a Band-Aid, maybe three or four or five or six or more, and a bottle of that spray stuff we just got at the store..."

Sandburg grimaced.

"Ha ha, Jim." He took a bite of his own sandwich.

They ate in companionable silence while the song about Band-Aids crooned through a recitation of splinters and unfriendly cats and falling out of trees among other childhood mishaps.

Finishing off both the last sandwich and his milk, Jim played with his empty glass. There was much to discuss with Sandburg, but the woman sleeping in the other room didn't need to hear any of it--not yet anyway. He sighed, and, choosing the course of least resistance, started there.

"What's with the music, anyway?"

Elbows on the table, Blair shrugged and swallowed.

"It's Emby's; said it helps her sleep. She keeps it in her backpack. That's what Persis was trying to find last night when you thought she was a prowler."

Last night? That had only been last night? Jim stared morosely at the empty glass while Sandburg took another bite of sandwich. The song changed, more of a grinding rock beat but still with just the two instruments, their players singing now about dinosaurs and being bigger than a grocery store. Jim let himself get lost in the music for a minute, rather than think about the events and revelations of the last 24 hours. If this was what most kids' music was like it wasn't half bad. At least it wasn't that purple dinosaur Jim had run across a few times while channel surfing. One didn't have to have Sentinel senses for that monstrosity to grate on your nerves. Still caught up in the lyrics, he realized belatedly that Blair was talking to him.

"...why she needs the music with all the stuff they gave her at the hospital is beyond me. Man, I thought they were gonna have to knock her out there for a while."

But they hadn't had to, and Blair was too self-effacing to take the credit for being the one who'd been able to go in and calm Emby down when nothing else would. Whose bright idea it had been to separate them in the first place, Jim didn't know. Blair had ridden in the ambulance with Morag; Jim had come in after the fact, having followed in his truck. Things had been quiet when he strode through the door into the Emergency waiting room, Sandburg sitting in one of the plastic chairs trying to fill out paperwork for Morag only to discover he was woefully uninformed about his friend. But when the terrified wailing had started behind door number three he'd shoved the clipboard at Jim and been in the treatment room beside Emby before anyone had a chance to question his right to be there.

The cessation of wailing and a cooperative patient were all the reasons the doctor in charge needed to approve Blair's presence. Since she showed a full range of movement in her hand it was pretty certain there was no tendon or ligament damage. So, shooting her full of something related to Valium (Jim had been eavesdropping from the waiting room when Blair asked) to relax her, the resident had started stitching; Blair losing track along with the doctor of just exactly how many stitches it took to close up the gashes in her hand.

"Lots," was all he'd been able to offer Jim afterward, handing a very mellow Morag over to the Sentinel while he signed the release paperwork for her. Blair had pocketed the rest of the supplies and the paper bag full of pills the nurse gave him, and followed Jim as he half-carried Morag out to the truck. When they arrived back at the loft, Rafe had been there, scratches doctored and waiting patiently for Jim.

The music moved on; now it was a lullaby about dragons and wishes being granted. Well, they'd had a few wishes granted today, just a few. He could only hope they were enough to make up for the wishes that had gone begging in Morag's life.

Jim opened his mouth to tell Sandburg about the journal, about the pictures and papers they'd found with it in the ammunition box Emby had thrown through the window, but a noise from Blair's room froze the words in his throat. Sandburg was out of his chair and in his bedroom beside Morag immediately. Jim stayed put, turning his hearing up and unashamedly eavesdropping on the murmured conversation in the other room. Blair came out long enough to get a glass of water, and Jim heard the sound of pills being shaken out after that. More whispered conversation, mostly Sandburg reassuring Emby that she was safe, that he wasn't leaving, and a few short minutes later the sound of deep, even breathing again.

Jim stood and gathered his plate and glass as Sandburg came out, closing the French doors most of the way behind him. He didn't need Blair's explanation, but he didn't tell the kid that.

"She's fine; her hand was just starting to hurt some." Sighing, Blair sank into his chair again, staring blankly at the remaining half of his sandwich. Jim nodded, and headed into the kitchen to put his dishes in the sink. Returning to the table, he grabbed a chair and swung it around to sit with his arms folded across the back.

"Eat. You need it." Sandburg looked up at him, then shrugged slightly before picking up the sandwich and taking a bite. Jim let him finish chewing it before he asked the next question, this one just a bit harder than the music one.

"How long are you going to be head babysitter, Chief?" There was more, a lot more he could have said, but he didn't. How long could Blair hold Morag's fractured sanity together without losing his own? How long could he walk in her parallel worlds and still balance his own wildly divergent universes of policework and academia and Sentinel/Shaman/Guide?

Sandburg smiled thinly.

"Not long, Jim." There was gentle rebuke in his tone, and Jim shifted, looking away from those blue eyes, staring instead at the pattern of light reflected through the stairs and onto the wall behind Blair. Dammit, he shouldn't have to apologize for being concerned for his roommate's well-being. Morag was Sandburg's friend, okay, fine. But she needed...well, he wasn't sure what she needed but Jim was certain she needed a lot more than whatever Sandburg had to give. Tensing, trying to marshal his arguments, Jim jumped as Blair's hand brushed lightly against his arm.

"It's okay, Jim. I know where you're coming from, all right? Morag called some friends tonight--Colonel Shaeffer and his wife."

Shaeffer. Shiffer. Persis had said a Captain Shiffer was there when Emby and her Mom were found. Blair nodded in answer to Jim's silent question.

"He was her dad's CO. He's retired now, lives in Spokane. They're driving over tomorrow, early. I talked to them for a bit, and it sounds like they're more than willing to take care of her for however long she needs them too. I guess that's where she went before, when she disappeared from Rainier that one spring, and where her dad sent her after..." Sandburg's gaze slid away from Jim's and the shrug finished the thought for him: after the attack in her father's stereo room. And after Harper had gotten his revenge on her for slapping him at her father's funeral. Matt Harper's women didn't treat him like that, not in public, and his journal had left no doubt in Jim and Simon's minds that he saw Morag as Martha's rightful heir in his life. Sheena had paid for her display of independence that day and paid high.

Both men stared into the shadowed room in silence for a few minutes. The resiliency of the human mind was an incredible thing; the fact that Morag had survived such terror not once, but four times, and was even remotely sane was a bona fide miracle in Jim's book. The fact that a man was capable of inflicting such horror on a another human being, well, that was one of the things as a cop he tried hard not to get too fixated on. That was when a cop truly lost his humanity, when he decided the rest of the human race was as dirty and ugly as the criminals with whom he dealt every day.

Taking a deep breath, Jim checked Sandburg's progress on the sandwich. About 2/3's done, but it didn't look like he was going to finish it. Okay, might as well get the rest of this over with.

"There's some stuff Simon and I thought you might like to look over."

Blair was more than willing to give up on his sandwich. He followed Jim silently up the stairs, objecting only when the detective went to turn on the white noise generators someone had returned to his room during the day.

"If she can't hear when she wakes up, it makes her nervous. I don't think she'll be up to listening in anyway, not with the medication she just took."

After a second Jim nodded, then reached for the paper bag and Po's box, sitting on his dresser. It was all there, in graphic black and white, and he waited silently, listening to the softly beating heart downstairs while Blair sorted through it.

Opening the box first, Blair stared at the photo laying on top of everything: Martha Douglass and Matthew Harper. Martha's lacy white wedding dress didn't conceal her advanced pregnancy; nor did her veil hide the fact she was obviously a number of years younger than her groom. Wide-eyed, she stared soberly into the camera, Harper's arm holding her possessively around her thick waist. His smile was just a bit too triumphant, too gloating, and Jim didn't blame Blair when he turned the photo over quickly. Sandburg automatically checked the back for a date, just as Jim had when he'd been sorting through the contents of the ammo box at Harper's house. In elegant handwriting someone had penned "Matt and Martha, March 29, 1966."

Silence. No word from Blair, nothing. He set the photo in its bag aside and reached for the next piece of paper encased in Ziploc. Jim knew what he'd find there; Martha had only been sixteen when she wed. Her father had signed the wedding license for her. That paper was also set aside, in silence.

There was more: the telegram the army sent to Harper when his twenty-two-month-old son succumbed to viral meningitis in an army hospital in Texas, a telegram Harper hadn't received until three years later. Blair's request for Henri to dig up Harper's military records had filled in the details of why his unit had been unavailable when his son died: caught in a Viet Cong ambush on a routine patrol, all members of the unit were missing and presumed dead--until John Gilbertson had staggered through the fog one morning a week later, leading half a dozen survivors into safety behind US lines. Those few men survived only because a gravely wounded Matt Harper volunteered to stay behind rather than slow their escape. He'd pressed his dog tags into John's hands, told him to look after his wife and infant son, then turned to provide the cover fire that allowed his comrades to flee to safety in the jungle.

There was the standard "We regret to inform you..." Missing In Action telegram addressed to Martha Harper, still in Texas. A Bronze Star, awarded to Sergeant Harper, MIA, for combat heroism. And, finally, a less formally worded telegram, addressed to Martha Harper, with a penciled in address that read "care of Lieutenant John Gilbertson, Camp Pendleton," informing her that her husband, Sergeant Matthew Harper, had been turned over by the Viet Cong in a prisoner exchange. Alive, if not very well after three years as a POW.

Blair stared hard at that telegram, his hands shaking, before setting it aside.

Emby had already told them most of what was in the letter he picked up next, the one from Martha to Harper telling him she wouldn't return to him. Having lived with Gilbertson for almost two years and pregnant now with his child, Martha refused to consider returning to a marriage she'd been forced into in the first place. Matt Jr. had been the only reason she might have returned; with his death there was nothing she wanted from the senior Harper. Included with the letter was an envelope with Harper's divorce papers, and two small newspaper clippings. One, dated June 1, 1971, detailed the wedding of Martha Douglass Harper and Lieutenant John Gilbertson. It was a small affair, and the article brushed over the fact that the bride was 9 months pregnant at the time of the ceremony.

The second clipping, dated later that June, congratulated Lieutenant and Mrs. Gilbertson on the birth of their daughter, Morag Blanche.

Another Ziploc bag held a handwritten invitation forwarded to Gilbertson's Cascade address from South Carolina, an invition to a reunion for their surviving unit members. The event was held at John Gilbertson's house, December 31, 1987--just three months before Morag was attacked in her father's basement stereo room. The military records faxed from the VA hospital in Seattle included Harper's discharge from the army four years later and his placement on permanent disability for "psychological problems related to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." Finally, Blair picked up the paper bag containing Harper's journal. Removing it from both the bags, he thumbed through the entries, pausing occasionally to read. But he didn't say anything. There wasn't much to say; most of what was in there he and Jim had figured out already. So the journal, too, was eventually set aside. Then, hands limp in his lap, Sandburg simply stared into the darkness. Jim waited, patiently. Finally, Blair took a deep breath and pushed the pile of evidence away with one hand before meeting Jim's questioning glance with his own stony gaze.

"Shit," was all he said.

Which just about summed everything up.


	14. Chapter 14

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_"Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title."_

 

_\---Virginia Woolf_

 

 

Part 14

 

 

So far Jim had counted 243 seagulls. No puffins, but there were a couple of sea lions battling with the gulls for their share of the garbage dumped into the Sound by a passing ship. Sparkling like an overturned basket of diamonds beneath a warm, late afternoon sun, the water extended out from the beach beside Po's house and disappeared under the western horizon. After the past weeks of rain and fog, spring had broken out gloriously today in northwest Washington.

It was the kind of sunny day that led recent arrivals to chuck their rain gear and woolens into the closet while digging frantically for their gardening equipment. Old-timers dug out their rakes and hoes as well: such beautiful weather was not to be wasted. But long-time residents knew better than to ever pack away their rain gear--or their wool shirts and flannel. Sure, today was gorgeous and sunny. There might even be a whole week of this, if they were lucky. But it wouldn't last. No matter Jim had driven past full, blooming fields of daffodils and tulips on their way to Samish: this early promise of spring was a lie. Clouds and precipitation would most likely claim the rest of April, the month of May and a goodly portion of June as well. Everyone who'd lived here any length of time knew better than to count on sunshine until after the Fourth of July.

Jim had just focused on a distant wisp of fog, trying to decide if it was sounding whales or a low-hung cloud, when Sandburg's cup rattled--much louder than necessary--as it landed on the saucer. When he saw that he had his Sentinel's attention, the grad student raised his eyebrows in an obvious question. Jim shook his head minutely, resisting the urge to growl as he took a sip of his coffee. No, he wasn't zoning, just enjoying the view, Sentinel-wise. Sandburg rolled his eyes in a "Well, I couldn't tell" look before reaching for his tea again. Jim returned to his counting, and the room descended once again into quietude, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of the papers Anson Po clutched.

Relaxing into the couch, Jim drank deeply of his coffee as they waited for Po to finish reading. He checked out the window; another sea lion joined the circus around the remnants of garbage out in the Sound, and Jim chuckled softly. The gulls were definitely winning, their advantage in numbers more than making up for the difference in size between mammal and avian. Taking a deep breath and then another sip of coffee, Jim reveled in the peaceful feeling that stole over him in the brightly lit room. He didn't know what it was about the ocean that calmed him so, and he was reluctant to bring the subject up around Sandburg. The kid would immediately be theorizing about the surf functioning as some sort of white noise, and leap from there to designing new, underwater hearing tests for him or wanting to find out how many bottom dwellers the Sentinel could sniff out from on shore. Worse yet, he'd be buying some of those "nature cd's" with surf sounds on them to play whenever he thought his Sentinel was a bit stressed. Jim shook that thought off in a hurry; he didn't need Sandburg picking up on *those* vibes.

Maybe the peace he felt here was because the ocean wasn't his jurisdiction; it was a realm Jim didn't have to protect. The sea simply was. No need for the Sentinel to understand it, no need for him to feel responsible for it. Maybe he was coasting on the peace he'd seen in Po's eyes, in his wife's face, that filled this place up and then had some left over for tired and weary Sentinels and their Guides. Sitting here in this room, it was easy to lay aside his responsibilities at home, and far too easy to lose himself in the seductive sounds around him: the faint cries of the gulls, the soft surging rhythm of water on sand, the gurgling of waves over the rocks. Meditation didn't always require candles and incense.

Then again, maybe a little too much of his roommate was rubbing off on him.

Another too-loud rattle of Sandburg's cup on its saucer reminded Jim they were here on business, not pleasure. No zoning allowed. With a sigh, he dialed down his hearing, and reluctantly returned his attention to the room around him.

Without looking at Jim, Sandburg stood and excused himself to the kitchen to claim another cup of tea. Po didn't stop reading, just nodded vaguely in Sandburg's direction as he left the room. Maeve's voice floated from the kitchen, Blair's flirtatious answer more laughter than words. Jim shook his head and smiled to himself as he studied the coffee in his cup. In Maeve Po Blair had found a kindred connoisseur; the petite woman favored many of the same exotic tea blends the anthropologist did, even had a few he'd never heard of. They'd spent the first twenty minutes after Jim and Blair's arrival this afternoon comparing teas and quirky little yuppy shops to buy them at. Jim had gratefully accepted the cup of coffee Mrs. Po brewed for him in the midst of their discussion, and then stood at the window, his back to the room at large, tuning out their conversation in favor of the sights and sounds of sea and shore. Sandburg and Mrs. Po were just getting warmed up when the man they had come to see returned from his errands.

Maeve Po had excused herself then, leaving her husband and his visitors to whatever conversation they could come up with. It wasn't much, not at first. After the basic greetings were exchanged there was an uncomfortable silence. Then Blair reached for his backpack, digging inside it for Po's box.

"We promised to return this," he said simply, handing the box to Po with one of his famous smiles.

Po had said nothing, simply stared at the box and then his two visitors with that same, unfathomable look they'd seen last week. Blair's smile slipped a little, and he slid an uneasy glance at his roommate, but Po had finally reached for the box. Jim found a seat on the beige futon, and then he and Sandburg waited while Po settled back into his rocker. After staring at the box for a long moment, he opened it, took the papers out and began to read.

It was everything he'd given them last week, and more. Jim and Sandburg had added their own information to the carved box. Po deserved to know, both Sentinel and Guide had agreed on that, and Simon had looked the other way--knowing better than to argue with them as they made copies of the evidence from Harper's house, Jim's report, and pertinent sections of both Harper's and Gilbertson's military records. Today, Thursday, not quite a week after Morag's abduction and Harper's arrest, they'd driven up to Samish to return Po his box.

Morag. She was gone, out of their lives for now, not due to return until graduation in June. And Morag was graduating. In spite of everything, she would get her Master's degree--thanks to Sandburg. The man had moved heaven and earth to get the three professors necessary for Morag's defense assembled at the University yesterday morning, in the middle of Spring Break. He'd told them enough of Morag's story to get their cooperation, but not enough to expose her to their pity and speculation. Afterwards Jim had picked up a jubilant Guide and a very giddy Morag and had a hard time convincing them that 11 a.m. was too early to go out and celebrate with wine.

This morning they'd helped pack Morag, her new Winnie-the-Pooh backpack, and all her stuff into the Shaeffers' car, filling the small U-Haul trailer Drew Shaeffer had rented with Morag's books and Emby's tea sets. The stereo system had been left behind in storage. Jim had promised Shaeffer he'd take care of selling it for Morag. There wasn't any doubt she no longer wanted it, nor had Blair when Morag had offered it to him.

They'd said their goodbyes and then Morag and the Shaeffers had driven off. Blair had waited until they were out of sight before he nailed Jim with one look.

"The clearance aisle," he stated, skepticism oozing from his words like sap from a tree in spring.

Staring off down the street where Shaeffers' black 4-Runner had disappeared, Jim shrugged. Damn. Getting out of this was going to be harder than he'd thought.

"Maybe not, but it was right there, and I just thought since her other one was ruined when Harper grabbed her...It's not a big deal, Chief." He shrugged again, ignoring his roommate as he headed for the truck, parked across the street from Morag's apartment. Blair was too busy smirking to get the hint that the conversation was over.

"Hey look, man. I shop at Freddy's. You and I both know the purses and backpacks aren't anywhere near the groceries--or the sporting goods aisle. And those backpacks do *not* make it to the clearance aisle." Abandoning his smirk for a full-blown, Guide-that-got-the-Sentinel grin, Blair waited for Jim to deny his accusations.

Unlocking the passenger side door, Jim sighed, studiously avoiding Blair's triumphant gaze. Okay, fine, he was found out. It was just a new backpack, for crying out loud. Besides, Jim had seen Blair furtively stuff a brand new Classic Piglet doll in Morag's pack this morning. But as Jim opened his mouth to defend himself, Blair opened his door and climbed in the truck. Still grinning, he watched smugly as Jim walked around the truck to the driver's side. Jim had gotten in and started the truck up, ignoring Blair's sotto voce monologue about whimsy genes and genetic throw-backs as he did so. That was usually the best response when the round went to the Guide; otherwise Blair was quite accomplished at being insufferable.

Actually, ignoring Blair would work right now as well. Too bad the Guide was out of the room for the moment.

The sun dropped lower over the water outside the windows as Po read, and Jim slowly finished his coffee. After a quiet conversation with Maeve, Blair returned to the room with his tea, the grad student settling deep in the same salmon colored chair he'd claimed on their last visit. Several more quiet minutes passed, and Jim was debating going after more coffee when Po swallowed hard, and finally looked at them. The tears tracking down the older man's face didn't surprise Jim, not at all. Po's eyes were dark, but with grief now, the kind of grief for someone else that only struck those with deep souls--souls like Po's and Sandburg's.

"Damn. I was so close. *So* damn close!" Po dropped the papers into his lap, and looked away, out over the Sound. One hand rubbed over his face. Jim shifted in his seat and traded looks with Blair.

"You didn't know," Jim said. "The information you gave us wouldn't have made sense without the rest of it, without what Sheen--Morag told us. And she wasn't ready to talk when you were working on the case."

Po gave him an oblique look, and Jim wondered if he'd let too much slip. Sandburg had made him promise not to tell anyone about Morag's other personalities, save the short list that had to know: Jim, Simon, the Shaeffers. The District Attorney. But no one else, no one else at all. Blair the Pit Bull was still defending his friend, still protecting her even if she was no longer his responsibility. Jim had a feeling, though, that the man sitting in front of them would have taken that part of the case completely in stride.

Blair must have had the same feeling, because he took a deep breath and spent the next ten minutes explaining Persis and Sheena and Emby and their role in the whole mess to Po. When he was done, Po was still and quiet, not looking at either one of them. Jim could feel the man settling that piece of information in his soul along with the other details he'd been given. Settling the fact of Morag's multiple identities, accepting it, almost grateful for it, for the way it made certain things about this case make sense when nothing else did. That accomplished, Po returned his attention to Blair.

"Where is she now? Morag?" he grated, swiping at his eyes again with one hand.

Blowing on his tea, Blair looked up and smiled reassuringly at Po.

"She went home with the Shaeffers, to Spokane. Turns out her dad put most of his money in a trust fund for her. He knew she'd need help someday, and in case he wasn't around when that happened, he set it up for Shaeffers to be there. She's got enough to take care of the professional help she'll need. I think she's going to be okay. They're good people, and they really care about her."

Morag *was* going to be okay; Sandburg wasn't just saying that. Jim had known that from the minute he'd opened the loft door to admit the lean, dark-skinned man with the soulful eyes and his tall, buxom wife (obviously from the same gene pool as Simon Banks). Drew and Susanne Shaeffer had obviously had whatever it was the shattered portions of Morag's soul needed for their healing--the whatever it was the Sentinel had known just as certainly that Sandburg had *not* had. Watching a few moments later as Susanne Shaeffer clutched a sobbing Emby to her not insubstantial bosom had only confirmed that feeling. A long hard road lay ahead of Morag, but with the right help and the love and support of people like the Shaeffers--and his roommate-- she would make it through, healed and whole.

And speaking of making it...

"Sandburg..." Blair nodded, and finished the last of his tea in a long gulp. Po looked up in askance as Jim stood, and the Sentinel smiled apologetically. "We have tickets to the Jags game tonight." Tickets that had come courtesy of the Jag's advertising manager, whose five-year-old granddaughter just happened to be named Riley. Supposedly the unmarried aunts would be sharing tonight's box with the Guide and his Sentinel.

Po looked Blair over as the grad student got to his feet, and then the older man smiled, approvingly.

"It is good to see your burden lifted. I pray it will be long before you have such another."

Straightening up with his pack, Blair inclined his head to one side, casting a sidelong glance at Jim.

"Uh...thanks. I, uh, I'm glad it's over. Solved." Hands fluttering as he spoke, Blair laughed uncomfortably. "It's, uh, you know, it's a good thing cases like this don't come along everyday, or...man. Whew. I'd be, well, you know, outta here or out there or something." Sandburg tucked his hands in the front pockets of his jeans as he finished speaking and, shrugging, gave Po a rather sheepish smile.

Po nodded gravely at Sandburg, his own smile twinkling in his eyes.

"You'd best go then, if you want to make it back in time for the game." Po quickly shuffled the papers into the box, and, shutting it firmly, placed it on the table before he, too, got to his feet. All three men stared at the box for a long minute, and then Po spoke. "Tonight is a good night for a bonfire on the beach."

It was a pronouncement, not a statement, and Jim had been around Sandburg long enough to recognize the implications thereof. Tonight would be more than a simple bonfire, it would be a cleansing ceremony, a purifying ritual, for both Po and Morag. The fire would be sacrificial, the papers in the box, maybe even the box itself, burned: in thanksgiving that Morag was well--and in hopes that she would soon be whole. Sandburg had guided her through the beginning of the end of the darkness she had walked in for twenty years. Po would pray for the light to guide her, as she learned now to walk in its brightness.

Po's rich voice interrupted Jim's thoughts.

"You are welcome to stay, if you like. Maeve's got her crab pots out. I'm sure she'd be more than willing to share, especially with a couple of strong young backs to help her haul them up."

Maybe it was the blind date aspects of tonight's Jags' game, but Po's invitation suddenly sounded much more appealing to Jim. He didn't need any ceremonial bonfire; just being by the sea had its calming effect on him. However, he did know his partner well enough to know it really wouldn't hurt the younger man to have a little cleansing and purifying after the last week or two. But tonight was Blair's reward more than his, and Jim couldn't just throw Sandburg's evening with Riley's aunts away.

Steeling himself for Blair's refusal, Jim looked out at the water for a long moment. He drew as much of the peace of the place in as he could, before he looked at his roommate--only to find his own desire to stay mirrored in Blair's eyes. After a long second, Blair turned from Jim to smile at Po.

"Actually, you know, that sounds like a really great idea. I'll need to call someone and let them know we can't make it, but hey, you won't catch me turning down an invitation for fresh crab and a bonfire on the beach."

Po's smile grew, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"That's fine. The phone's right there. I'll tell Maeve." He waved at a small desk in the southwest corner of the room. Blair nodded and made a beeline for the phone. Listening in a few minutes later as Sandburg began weaving his verbal magic into plausible excuses for their absence this evening, Jim bit back a laugh. How the kid managed to wiggle out of situations like this and still be in most everyone's good graces was really beyond his ken.

In the kitchen, Po and Maeve were discussing whether it was time yet to go after the crab pots. Jim stretched lazily, like a cat after his nap, then bent over for his coffee cup. Blair was saying goodbye, and it sounded like he'd managed to wangle the box seats for another game, a different day. Well, hey, why not? It wasn't like either one of them had an overflowing social calendar.

Blair joined him, but before Jim had taken two steps toward the kitchen, his Guide put a hand out and stopped him.

"What is it?" Jim asked, concerned by the sudden dismay on Blair's face.

"Oh, man, I cannot *believe* I forgot! Shoot!"

"What, Chief? What is it?" Standing in the kitchen by the back door, Po was waving them forward now; Maeve had already disappeared outside.

"Damn, I didn't set the VCR to tape tonight's episode of Star Trek!" Blair was turning in circles, searching the room for something. "And it doesn't look like they have a TV here. Damn!"

Jim stared at Blair in disbelief for a moment, then shook his head. He batted Sandburg lightly on the head as he stepped around the younger man.

"Chief, it's not the end of the world. I think you can live without the tape," he chided softly, pausing in the doorway that connected the two rooms.

"Ah, man, Jim, you don't understand!" Blair's hand waving in the air emphasized his protestations. "Tonight's episode is 'Plato's Stepchildren.' Sure, they mangle Plato's philosophy--well, okay, they didn't just mangle it, they, like, totally did *not* get it. But that's not what's important here, you have to understand, man, Uhura and Kirk kiss in this episode, they kiss! It was television's *first* *interracial* kiss, Jim, and I wanted to have it on tape!"

It was *definitely* a good time for the Sentinel to begin to ignore his Guide.

Jim headed on into the kitchen while Blair was still looking desperately about him for some means of rescuing the evening. He set his coffee cup next to the sink and shared a grin with Po. Both men then eased out the back door. It was easy enough for the Sentinel to stay tuned in to Blair's complaints as he and Po slowly followed Maeve down the short street toward the river and the boat docks.

"Oh, I do *not* believe this, I can't *not* get this on tape! I just don't...Jim? Jim? Detective Po? Mrs. Po? Hey, where'd you guys go? Hello? Hey, where is everybody?"

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

_"Dim powers of drowsy thought, let her no longer be_

_Like the pale cup of the sea,_

_When winds have gathered and sun and moon burned dim_

_Above its cloudy rim;_

_But let a gentle silence wrought with music flow_

_Whither her footsteps go."_

 

_\--- William Butler Yeats _


End file.
